


initiation

by fishcola



Series: sommeil [2]
Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Depression, Dramatic Tension, Explicit Language, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Ideation, Supernatural Elements, Violent Scenes, also epistolary narrative voice, emotional cliffhangers, extensive discussion of physical and mental health issues, extreme fretting, high risk behavior, just kind of a lot of emotion yanking about with all tools at my disposal, noncon/dubcon, psychiatric diagnoses and medical language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-07 14:34:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18412619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishcola/pseuds/fishcola
Summary: Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the exponent of breath.— Emily Dickinsonpat didn't really have aplanto deal with this, per se. he just gets started. he's always been better with improvisation.note: not gonna make a TON of sense unless you read part one <3





	1. the underworld

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part 2 of a 3-part angst/hurt/comfort/drama/horror/love story. It gets more and more fucked up the whole time. *I* think it has a happy ending, but my favorite book is Lolita, so think about if you want to trust your most delicate emotions to me before you get invested.
> 
> Specifically, there are explicit descriptions of **graphic violence** (including graphic sexual violence), **dubious consent** both romantic and sexual, **symptoms of illness** (a lot of neurological language), and **mental illness** (including depression, at length). There's some fluff too, and romance, and triumph, and all the other things that life mixes in with the bad shit. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~~~ HEY YO THESE PEOPLE ARE GOOD ~~~  
> poppyseedheart read this shit when it was in its infancy: a screaming wailing mass of pretentious painful emotional beats with no fun bits or resolution whatsover. they read it so passionately and deeply and kindly and cleverly that i could finish it instead of trashing it. not a beta so much as a midwife. also helped me chill out some italics.
> 
> Johnny_Kielbasa read this shit even though it's not their kind of thing. read it with a close focus and humor that made the jokes pop and helped me know what was working. thx hon. also thanks for laughing at all the dick jokes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.
> 
>  
> 
> **\- Sylvia Plath**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: this chapter contains explicit reference to (minor) self-harm, and characters addressing depression, suicide, & violence (mostly oblique)

_You’d be surprised what you can get used to._

_What you can enjoy, even. Some people get into atonal jazz. Plenty of people drink gin. Some people sign up to spend three months cramped underwater, out of contact except a round-the-clock watch for the nuclear launch codes that could destroy all the world except your own stupid submarine._

_Compared to that, the next few months are pretty normal, actually._

_Brian comes over for about a week, sometimes longer. It’s fucking nice, to have someone else in his house—Pat’s never made the place presentable enough to have people over, but with Brian it doesn’t really matter. Beggars can’t be choosers._

_Pat finds out how fucking good Brian is at platformers, and how absolutely trash he is at first-person shooters, mostly because he hasn’t got the attention span to switch guns properly. He finds out that the creative writing major at Johns Hopkins must be pretty buck-wild, because Brian got an A- on a paper that had the word “pussy”in it, and the minus wasn’t for quoting Kanye West but for failing to draw a clear enough parallel between his life and that of Lord Byron. He finds out that Brian doesn’t have a plan, at least not one that he’ll admit to. He finds out that Brian likes gin._

_“Thank god,” Pat lets his head fall back onto the sofa in melodramatic relief. “At least someone will drink it. Simone keeps giving me bottles and I feel like a hoarder, but none of them fucking taste good.”_

_“You should at least try the Botanist one,” Brian advises. “Mix it with something. You’ll acquire a taste.”_

_He’s never done it for Simone, but he humors Brian, mostly just to watch him craft elaborate cocktails and scowl about it the whole time, saying things like ‘this isn’t even for mixing’ while dousing out the abomination of floral bitterness with syrup and citrus._

_“Okay, next time I come I’m bringing the turmeric,” Brian nods to himself, satisfied. “You’ll like it.”_

_“Can I hold you to that? Next time?”_

_Brian doesn’t make a lot of promises, not really. Brian says that optimism is dangerous. Brian says that actions are more important than words. Brian says  he can’t possibly predict who he’ll be in the future. Brian says making resolutions is tempting fate. Brian doesn’t like to lie._

_“I can’t be sure that you’ll like it,” Brian eyes him. “But I promise I’ll bring it.”_

_“Thanks.”_

_You’d be surprised what you can get used to. Three months later, Pat’s drinking gin straight (although Brian says it’s still “beginner gin”), and Brian’s sick days are at least somewhat under control, and those strange bloody eyes are becoming quite familiar._

  
  
  
  
  


It takes some coaxing but eventually Brian shares his notes with Pat.

He produces them with trembling fingers, legal pads and crumpled graph paper and little ripped-up moleskines that live in a file folder stuffed underneath his mattress. It’s an entire folio of research and questions and possible leads, interspersed with frantic chickenscratch of fears and longings, half academic project and half tortured diary of a lost soul.

Pat smooths out each one on Brian’s kitchen table and copies it out, because Brian is nervous about any of this living in the cloud. Pat indulges the paranoia. He hasn’t written so much longhand since school. But it feels kind of nice, to take his time with each page, to translate Brian’s frantic, fearful, furious writing into his own loping hand, to meditate on the whys and wherefores. The ink makes the whole thing feel more real, albeit sort of Victorian-era real.  

Most of Brian’s observations about his own body are clinical, cross-referenced with medical cases and studded with intricate Latin. Pat has to ask a lot of questions. Apparently _dynamic mechanical allodynia_ means is _the feeling of clothes brushing against my skin feels like fire today._ Apparently a _hemiplegic migraine_ is a pretty scary thing to witness—Brian’s oldest sibling used to stumble down the stairs, face slack, left arm useless, and wave off his baby brother’s concerns with a half-shrug and an _it’s no big deal it just happens sometimes grandma used to have it._ Apparently _idiopathic_ is doctor speak for _no fucking clue, man._

 

In contrast, Brian’s descriptions of his _flashes_ are terse, jerky. Just a few short words in blocky, broken capitals, as if he’s jotting them down as fast as possible and never looking at them again. He doesn’t get them every time. They’re not long. Just terrible moments of clarity in a mysterious sleep.

FRUSTRATED. BIT AT CLAWS. THEY DON’T SPLINTER —  7/12  
NOTHING — 7/13  
SO HUNGRY. IT WAS AWFUL. SO HUNGRY. HURT SO BAD. —  7/14

VERY ANGRY. VERY STRONG. SCRATCHED UP DOOR — 8/11  
DOOR IS NOT SAFE. I BROKE THE HANDLE. I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER — 8/12  
FELT MYSELF WANTING OUT. TRYING TO GET OUT — 8/13  
QUICK — 8/14

HANDCUFF WORKS. THANK GOD — 9/9  
NOTHING — 9/10  
NOTHING — 9/11

I PULL ON IT A LOT. I DIDN’T SEE IT THOUGH. FELT ANGRY — 10/8  
MUST HAVE PULLED HARD. DON’T REMEMBER — 10/9  
I COULDN’T EVEN REMEMBER HURTING PAT — 10/10

Pat can’t ask many questions about those, not without making the kid cry.

 

Elsewhere, Brian’s notes stray away from the realm of the physical. Pat can’t copy them all. There’s too many footnotes and cross-references, too many tight little tables of analysis with cramped cursive running up the side. But he does _read_ them, at least, and asks for help as best he can.  
  
_What’s the Eyam hypothesis?_  
_Oh, that’s not about changing._  
_What’s it about?_  
_Sickness behavior. Like, whether there’s an evolutionary reason being sick sucks so much._  
_Is there?_  
_The hypothesis is that when we’re sick like. Everything hurts. It makes us slow down and hide away. Instinct._  
_Sounds about right. Like cats?_  
_Yeah, kind of._  
_That’s interesting. I always wonder why cats do that. Why does it help?_  
_It doesn’t._  
_I thought evolution did things that helped you survive._  
_It’s helping your genes survive. Just, like, the ones in your relatives. In case you’re contagious._  
_That’s fucked._  
_A little bit, yeah._

 

 

“What you guys workin’ on?” Jonah asks, when he comes home too early one night, steady tread on the stairs and key in the lock throwing Brian into a frenzy of hiding and stuffing and shoving away.

“Next Unraveled script,” Pat lies easily for the kid. “Bri’s real torn up about it. Something about conflicting timelines. We’re done with your kitchen table though. Just gave up for the night.”

“Good! Y’all wanna get Thursday-night-drunk before Laura gets home?”

“I’m kinda tired,” Brian pushes out, voice still far too jittery-scared for the situation.

Pat takes that as his cue to go, pushes up. “On my way out, actually, but thanks. I already worked him too hard for one evening.”

“It’s not you,” Brian sighs, running a hand through his hair, settling slightly. “Just stress.”

“I thought the workload was getting better,” Jonah frowns.

“It is. But it goes up and down,” Brian shrugs. “Kinda cyclic.”

Pat snorts at that, because he didn’t expect it. Jonah darts an eyebrow at him in the way you do when you hear an inside joke and know it’s not for you. Curious. Thoughtful.

“If you’re goin’ to bed this early it’s okay,” Jonah starts, easy, like he’s gentling a spooked horse. Brian still has a tense energy. Not the energy of a man who is going to sleep. “But if not I wanted to run by you a little ditty that got stuck in my head today.”

“Sure,” Brian says, and relaxes a bit.

“I’m heading out before you two get a drink in you and start harmonizing,” Pat excuses himself, grabs his bag. “Take it easy, Bri. Keep his mind off work, Jonah.”

“Aye-aye, cap’n!” says Jonah, pulling out his guitar.

  


Pat takes his own notes, too, of course. About what Brian is like.  

10/10

  * I’ve never seen anything like it….



The kid tries to read it aloud, to copy it into his little books. He wants to, because he’s clung on to this idea that if they can just write enough, think enough, research enough, figure this thing out then maybe he can be free of the torment and the pain and the terrible, terrible fear. But when he looks at Pat’s observations—no matter how perfunctory—his face goes green and he tends to either cry or puke or try to hurt himself, and Pat doesn’t let him, and then it’s a whole thing. 

> _Do I really lick myself?_ Brian’s tone whenever he asks things like this is—well, it’s something like embarrassed, but honestly careening toward sickened, as if he’s being told what he did when he was drunk, and it turns out what he did while drunk was to beat a cat to death.
> 
> _It’s fine,_ Pat always says. And it really _is_ fine, to watch Brian’s tongue lapping at his arm, cleaning his wounds or just his skin with careful attention.
> 
> Pat always tries to change the subject, to make it lighter, and it always goes wrong. _Do you think your tongue changes? Like, gets rough like a cat’s?_
> 
> _Please don’t ever think about my tongue,_ Brian says shortly. _That’s fucking disgusting._ It’s hard to keep his face neutral, but Pat manages. Brian’s crying, and his hands are in his hair again, and he needs Pat, right now.
> 
> _Sorry kid. It was a joke._ The hands don’t fight as much, anymore, when he gently detaches their grip. _Don’t hit your head again. Please. Just yell at me or something._

Brian is so sickened by Pat’s report that he says _please just tell me if you figure anything out_. Pat takes this as permission to keep his notes a secret—to keep writing, even if it’s not tidy or beautiful and it doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.

  
  
  
  


There’s a whole notebook just for tremors and associated sensations: shivers, tingles, “piloerection” ( _It just means goosebumps, Pat!)._ Some of the layered descriptions are so exquisitely awful that they make Pat’s stomach turn, but he is fond of that notebook anyway. It was in there that he found the word _appoggiatura,_ and when Brian explained Pat didn’t understand, and then when Brian stepped back to explain melodic ornamentation Pat _still_ didn’t understand, and that three-day adventure ended in a very serious powerpoint presentation with a lot of illustrative audio clips. Pat gets it now. Kid gets chills from classical music. Probably not useful, all things considered. But Pat enjoyed the journey.

 

HE WAS AFRAID OF PAT. THAT’S ALL I REMEMBER — 11/6  
NOTHING — 11/7  
NOTHING — 11/8

 

 _What’s commissurotomy?_  
_Oh, that’s not a medical thing._  
_What is it?_  
_Cutting your brain in half._  
_Sounds pretty medical._  
_No, it’s a thought experiment. About like if you cut your brain in half. Which one’s you._  
_You aren’t allowed to cut your brain in half, kid._  
_No, no, please—don’t look at me like that—it’s not like that—it’s about personal identity. It’s philosophy._  
_Give me something to read on it._

 

11/3

  * Twitching starts today. He doesn’t notice right when it starts, but by midmorning he can feel it. I can see it too. Something about how his fingers grip pens more tightly. He’s really gotten amazing at controlling it. He showed me the tremors at home. They’re visible.



11/4

  * Tremors strong today. Noticed his jaw was clenched most of the day.  
  * No ~~symptoms~~   ~~pain~~ change, but he couldn’t sleep. The fear of sleep is getting really bad, even between. He cries when his eyes get heavy, because he knows his body is about to give out.



11/5

  * Lost his temper today. Can’t tell if it was just him being frazzled and tired, or something else. I told him to go home early and get some rest and he lost it on me a bit. I saw his fists clenching hard, and I think he bit the inside of his cheek. No clear answer on how he feels. Poor fucking kid. It’s killing him, the stress. He spent the whole afternoon beating himself up about being an asshole and figuring out how to apologize.   



11/6

  * We talked for a long time before going to sleep. He explained more about how it feels. According to him, today he’s at a 3, which I think is bullshit. I could see he was hurting all day. His forehead scrunches up whenever he moves, like he’s trying not to yell. If you touch him without warning he sucks in a breath like you’ve hit him. I noticed he’s cut the tags out of all of his shirts.  
  * The writhing is so fucking bad. I can’t believe he’s trained himself not to scream. It seems impossible. It clearly hurts. Tonight he bit into his arm so hard he was bleeding.
  * After the change I think it hurts less. His own blood doesn’t seem to bother him like mine does.  



11/7

  * Spent most of the day puking. Not sure why. Maybe sick, or maybe related.
  * I thought Bri was nuts when he said it was afraid of me, but he’s right. But he gets wild when I’m outside of the room too. I wonder if he can smell me.
  * It’s weird to be in there with him watching me. His eyes are crazy. It’s weird ~~and kinda beautiful~~ , how red they are. At least his head doesn’t slam into the floor as much when he’s staring at me. Although fucking hell it’s hard for me to sleep.



11/8

  * I pulled out the new floor mattress. It’s nothing fancy but at least he doesn’t have to lie on a blanket anymore. He cried when I showed it to him and hugged me very hard. I can’t tell if he’s overemotional from a symptom or just being sick or just being himself. I dunno why he thinks that helping him with this is such a ridiculous thing. He’s doing all the hard parts. I just order stuff on Amazon and take notes.  
  * He gets upset if I move too fast. Bares his teeth. His fucking teeth are so wild. They’re curved like scimitars and white and somehow they fit perfectly even though I don’t think his face changes shape that much. Maybe a little. Something about the jawline. I know if his teeth are out then I need to stay still. I talk to him to calm him down. Maybe he likes hearing my voice? If there’s a sound outside he jumps, but usually he’s not jumpy when I’m talking.  



11/9

  * No change at all tonight. ~~I watched him sleep for a long time.~~ He’s whimpering and moving in his sleep, saying things but I can’t make them out. He calms down if I stroke his hair, but he gets really angry if he wakes up and I’m close to him at all. Not angry like that, just angry because he’s really afraid of hurting me.  



 

“Burnin’ the candle at both ends, again, you two?” Laura’s eyes twinkle.

“You know it. Deadlines.” Pat flips a crumpled wad of paper off his fingertips, aiming for the trashcan. It frazzles Brian, to see him fling the thing so carelessly, so he pushes his tired ass off the couch to fetch it. “Sorry.”

“Maybe we should just give up on this for the night,” Brian sighs and leans up from his notebook.

“See, Laura? See how he didn’t say  _clearly you’ve given up on this for the night Patrick so why don’t you scram?_ Now that’s tact.”

It’s wild how they both snort in the exact same way.

 

 

 

 

 

> _It’s not very dangerous, Pat. My skull is really tough. You can just let me._
> 
> _I don’t care._ Pat squeezes. _Your head is a precious resource. I don’t like seeing it slamming into things. Hit me if you have to hit something. But don’t jostle your brain cells. Who’ll write my jokes for me._
> 
> Usually the kid chokes, and cries, and apologizes, and lets Pat hold him until the urge passes. It can take a few minutes. Pat’s been faked out, before, let the fingers free too early and pulled away and seen Brian crack his knuckles into the crown like he’s locked outside of his own head and knocking in panicked desperation to be let in. Sometimes it’s accompanied by little yelps of anger, curses. Other times, crying. It always makes Pat’s heart ache, whether or not it’s dangerous.
> 
> _Do you do that because you because the other you is, like, surfacing?_ Pat hypothesizes, one night, when he’s got two wrists in one hand and the other is rubbing Brian’s back gently. _And he wants to attack you? Or are you trying to stop him?_
> 
> _No,_ Brian hitches a sigh. _No. That’s not the monster. That’s just me._
> 
>  
> 
>  

MY FEET DON’T HAVE CLAWS — 12/5  
SAW PAT LEAVE. PROBABLY TO GO TO THE BATHROOM. DIDN’T UNDERSTAND — 12/6  
NOTHING — 12/7

 

 _Jesus fucking Christ Brian I can’t make heads or tails of this. I’ve got like 40 tabs open._  
_Sorry. I know its dense. I can link you a really good lecture, but…_  
_But?_  
_Just don’t get mad._

 

 _Brian. You can’t watch this playlist._  
_Why?_  
_It’s morbid. This class is about death. It’s not good for you._  
_It’s philosophy, Pat. Wasn’t the clip good?_  
_I’m not worried about that one._  
_Which one are you worried about, then._  
_You know which ones._  
_I already watched all of them._  
_Give me your notes, then. I know you have notes._  
_What if they make you madder._  
_They won’t. I’m sure they’re amazing. Please let me have them. I’ll learn something at least._  
_Okay._

 

12/4

  * Change might come tonight. It’d be a little early, but he’s so keyed up. He says everything smells intense. Food especially. Someone was eating Japanese chips at the office and he had to go be sick and stay away for over an hour. See notes on hyperosmia.  
  * Last night was bad. ~~I had to hold him for an hour~~ before he fell asleep he said he could feel every part of his body going numb, piece-by-piece. He hates losing control over his breathing, even though it’s just getting still and calm. See notes on wake-initiated lucid dreaming.  



12/5

  * Gonna be a bad one. He’s going home early to get set up. I think he’s hoping he can get a couple hours of sleep before. He told me not to follow him but I’m going to anyway. He can’t be locking himself up alone in the house, it’s not safe. What if there’s a fire. When I asked him about that he just laughed and shrugged. ~~I hate how he laughs about dying~~. I think he’s so afraid and so tired and it hurts so much that it’s hard for him to imagine carrying on like this. I am so fucking afraid he is going to hurt himself. I need him to not give up. I would never be able to live with myself.  
  * When he shifts, now, he’s a lot calmer around me. At least at first. I fucked up this time. I shouldn’t have left the room.



 

12/6

  * I know he hates the dreams on the first night, but honestly they look much calmer from the outside. He says they’re wild and crazy, like running in forests and stalking prey and killing things, and they make him feel sick. I tell him to not judge them so hard. He needs to stop treating this like it’s a moral failing. If he gets a little more rest when his brain thinks about pouncing on goats or whatever, then great. It’s not like we don’t pretend to shoot people all day for a living. I think he at least considered the analogy.  
  * It’s best if I get on the floor. He gets agitated when I sleep up higher than him. I just want him to calm the fuck down. He’s not feral. There are just rules I need to figure out.  



 

12/7

  * Brian looked like death at work today, but he went.
  * I know Brian told me not to, but I tried feeding him today. He thinks it’s just going to encourage him, make him crazier, more likely to attack me. I don’t think so. I think he’s just really fuckin hungry. Brian hasn’t eaten for days, not really, maybe like a handful of almonds or something. It’s not crazy, that he’s hungry, when he changes. It’s not evil to be hungry.  
  * Once he eats I think it hurts less. His own blood doesn’t seem to bother him like mine does.  



  
They  _could_ do their research at Pat’s place, but they already lock themselves in their a quarter of the time. Brian’s too afraid and too drained and too focused to go out much of anywhere except work, home, and Pat’s. So Pat gets used to the subway over to Brian’s, and he learns Laura and Jonah’s work schedules, and he thinks of a million different excuses to leave  _just_ as they’re coming home. It’s certain that Jonah and Laura have questions, but they’re decent folk, and so they don’t ask. Usually. 

"Sure been seeing you around a lot lately, Pat," Laura prods, while Brian's in the bathroom. 

"Mmhmm. Lost of couple of video team members, and the workload's been wild." Pat drops his voice, and the subject. "How's he been doing, at home?" 

"Better," she relents immediately. "Not—not normal, exactly. But better. He's been talking to me more. He's really into philosophy lately. Little over my head sometimes." 

"Tell me about it," Pat grumbles. 

"I'll leave you both to it, then," she says, heading toward her bedroom. "But Pat?"

"Hmm?" 

"Just so you know, you can stay the night, if you want. Anytime. We won't ask any questions. No matter where you sleep."

Pat sighs. "Thanks, Laura." 

 

SAW THE MOON. — 1/3  
HE STARES AT THE CHAIN A LOT. HE’S NOT FIGHTING SO HARD THOUGH — 1/4  
NOTHING — 1/5  
NOTHING — 1/6

 

 

 

 

>  
> 
> _Why do you do it? Can you control it?_
> 
> _I feel like I can’t._ Pat lets his thumb run across the wrists he's holding. The rips from the handcuffs are nearly healed. Hopefully they don’t hurt. _It’s like a compulsion kind of. Like when I have a thought I can’t shake. I just have to knock it right out of my head. Or I feel like I’ll die. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I know it’s not good to watch. I know it’s stupid._
> 
> _Stop apologizing, kid._ Pat shrugs. _If you can’t control it you can’t control it. I can hold your hands for you when you’re here. I just worry about the rest of the time._
> 
> Brian glances at him, flexes his fingers into fists, and says in a voice dripping with self-loathing. _You don’t understand, Pat. You don’t understand. It doesn’t happen when you’re not around to stop me._
> 
> Pat can’t get more out of him, by way of explanation. He doesn’t really know what that means. But he keeps curling his fingers around the sharp little fists and telling Brian it’s all right.
> 
>  

_Hume was a sick fuck._  
_Hume’s a genius, Pat. He like, basically invented science._  
_You’re not a social burden, Brian. That’s not science. That’s bullshit._  
_I knew it’d make you mad._  
_I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at Hume. Please, don’t read any more of this. You’re going to get ideas._  
_I finished that class anyway. I’m back into Romantic poetry now. It’s more relaxing._  
_Thank God. Thank God. I can handle some mushy sonnets. Give me your reading list._  
_All right._

1/2

  * He’s still tentative about sharing a bed. I hope I’m not pushing too much. He needs to sleep. It’s perfectly safe tonight, there’s no reason he needs to be on the floor yet. I dunno if there are other things he’s afraid of. I hope not. I hope he knows I won’t take advantage of him. ~~I hope I’m not taking advantage of him~~. There’s no fucking rulebook for this. I just don’t know how else to get him to sleep except in my lap on the sofa. He gave in when I told him it’s killing my back.



1/3

  * He was already asleep when I got home. Thank god. He’s curled up in a little ball right now in the middle of the mattress. I noticed that he sleeps curled up. It’s not like the fetal position. It’s more like how a cat sleeps. His breathing is steady right now.
  * He likes steak. The rarer the better. I should probably just give it to him raw, but I’m afraid of making him sick when he’s human again.



1/4

  * Brian’s tired today, but a little more cheerful, considering.
  * I can tell that he wants me to be closer. I dunno how I know but I know. He gets as close to me as he can. He smells toward me. Is that a thing you can do? Smell toward somebody? He’s curious.



1/5

  * How is it possible that this kid ran a whole fucking meeting today. I need to convince him to just tell Tara he has lupus. Then he can just take time.
  * I got as close as I could. Brian would kill me if he knew. I didn’t touch him, but I probably will tomorrow. Yes he’ll probably claw the shit out of me again, if I let him, but what the hell. A few scratches is nothing. When I leave him alone he scratches the fuck out of himself. Even if I go to the bathroom, I come back and he’s agitated and he’s bitten himself up and clawed at his ankle so bad it gets blood everywhere. Brian needs to understand. He’s so fucking afraid. ~~I’m not anymore~~ ~~.~~



1/6

  * Today’s the day. Let’s see if he’s gonna give me something to use this first aid kit on.  
  * I let him touch me. Brian is going to kill me. But he didn’t hurt me, okay, Brian? It was pretty fucking scary, though. I just held out my hand and let him put his face near it. It seemed chill, so I got a little closer. He licked me. Which kinda freaked me out but didn’t end in me bleeding, so, success? Brian’s afraid that maybe this thing is transmissible by bites. I don’t think so. Brian didn’t get bit by shit. ~~And fuck it. If that happens, then there’s just two of us. We’ll have to get some more bike locks, but at least we can keep each other company. Probably have to loosen up the content schedule that week a little bit. And maybe Brian would stop beating himself up so hard.~~
  * Still, though. I need to be careful, if I’m gonna get closer next time. If Brian hurts me he’ll never forgive himself. I need to take precautions.  



 

Brian asks him, while they’re lying in separate beds and waiting for the night to come on, what’s the worst part. Pat immediately says the writhing, but Brian waves him off. He’s not talking about that. Brian has internalized the fact of the pain with bizarre neutrality.

Brian is talking about the scariest-looking part. He knows his teeth get pointed and his nails are like claws. He knows his face shifts, a bit, his eyes go red. Pat tells him he’s _not_ perpetually snarling, though he does have a sort of blank animalistic expression. It erases the spark of intelligence, of humor, which is always in Brian’s face. He moves fast and differently, not exactly on all fours, Pat thinks, but it would require him not being tied down to really figure that out, and that is not currently an option.  

“It’ll never be an option, Pat,” Brian snarls, and Pat sighs. “I’m a fucking _monster_ . If I could chain myself up in a dungeon for a week I would. They don’t have fucking _AirBnB_ for dungeons, though.”

Brian’s probably looked for such a thing, Pat knows. A hole he can throw himself down for 100 hours while his body suffers through this thing each month. The kid suggests things—a muzzle, a straightjacket—that make Pat’s stomach turn. The beast would be furious, of course, and fight the restraints with terrible power. But more than that, Pat is sickened by the thought of Brian, sitting bound and scared, for hours, with nothing to do but dread the coming pain and then descend into the red haze and wake up bruised and broken and alone.

It takes every inch of Pat’s persuasive power, to talk Brian down. _Please, no handcuffs. You can’t see yourself, Bri. You don’t understand how he hates them. It makes it worse._

Brian doesn’t love Pat’s advocacy for the beast, but he always relents, some clash of guilt and fear and fatigue combining to leave him susceptible to Pat’s sympathies. He begs Pat to just leave, to get out of the house, to sleep over at a friend’s or at least on the couch. _It’s not fair that you have to sleep with me near you,_ he says with real disgust.

 _It’s better when I’m there_ , Pat says, _And it really doesn’t bother me._ This fact, while strange, is true. He finds he’s perfectly capable of sleeping peacefully on the floor these days while the Brian-like thing watches him. Pat usually doesn’t sleep, though. He usually sits up, entertains himself with taking notes, and entertains the creature with food and petting. It likes cheetos and being scratched on the head. It does not like TV, not even a little bit. It still doesn’t quite trust Patrick, he doesn’t think.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooometimes you write a whole chapter and then your kindly angel editors read it and help you get it right and then you get frustrated change the order of every single paragraph and just DRUNK POST IT. great start, me. feel free to yell at me if i borked some timelines somewhere


	2. the road of trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .A half-hearted spirit has no power. Tentative efforts lead to tentative outcomes. 
> 
>  
> 
> **\- Epictetus**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: chapter contains  
> \- descriptions of injuries (some of which are ambiguously intentional)  
> \- discussion of suicidal thoughts, ideation, and plans; one moment that's a little vivid  
> \- discussion of self-harm and abusive relationships, mostly indirect as characters hypothesize  
> \- just a fucking angst bomb sorry babies i swear it gets better.
> 
>  
> 
> hit the endnote if you want a summary of what's in here w/out reading it <3 i would have found parts of this chapter triggering, back in the day, mostly not because of vivid descriptions but because we sit with the emotions of a depressed character quite a bit.

 

 

Pat’s always been good at keeping a cool head. To a fault, his mother would say. Sometimes, your head shouldn’t be so cool. Sometimes, you trick yourself into thinking you have things under control. Sometimes, when you gamble, and you win, the rush of adrenaline encourages you to double down. Sometimes you trip, even though you’ve done this a hundred times before, and get gored by the bull.

In February, it happens.

Usually, Pat’s barely in the range of fingertips. Yeah, the head-scratching is probably too close. It’s too close for Brian’s taste, that’s for sure, but Brian doesn’t see himself like this. He doesn’t see the way that a few fingertips tousling his hair change the sharp lines of his body—turn him from ferocious and deadly to fluffy-soft, almost at once. The thing doesn’t really want to hurt him, Pat reckons. It could scratch him, or bite his hand, if it did. But it just whimpers and gnaws at itself until Pat gets close enough to settle it down.

By February, Brian—the human Brian—has grown his hair out a bit. It’s probably not intentional; the kid’s got more important things on his mind than the hairdresser. The long hair suits the wild Brian, falling over his face in a tousled curtain, hiding his fangs, for the moment, as he waits for pets in an animalistic crouch.

Pat likes the silky feel of Brian’s locks. You don’t get to touch a lot of people’s heads, Pat finds, in a professional work environment, but he always is idly curious about what it feels like. It’s—well, oddly like running his hand through his own hair, a tic he indulges in with embarrassing regularity. The non-Brian thing is enjoying himself, tilting its head in that way it does when it wants Pat to scratch down near the scruff of his neck. Pat reaches to oblige—

and gets too close.

Pat’s never been yanked anywhere by his neck before, and it's not an experience he’d care to repeat.

Being slammed onto his back on the ground is fairly familiar, though, from wrestling. It’s a brilliant move, actually, the way the thing just hooked its hand around, pulled hard on the back of his neck, got him stumbling forward, turned him, slammed him down, all in the space of a second.

“Hey, hey,” Pat stammers, winded. The claws are still holding his throat, pricking lightly close to his jugular. He tries to keep his voice low and soothing, nonetheless. “Take it easy now, pup. It’s just your old friend Patrick. You got nothin’ to prove here.”  

He stays perfectly still, eyes closed, while it smells him, taking in a long snarling breath near Pat’s face.  

 _God_ —he hopes feeding it was a good idea.  

 _God_ —he hopes he’s not bleeding.  

 _God_ —almost worse than dying would be what Brian would do, when he wakes up tomorrow with blood on his hands. He would just unlock himself with trembling fingers and walk straight off the fire escape.

They’re ten stories up. It’s so bad, thinking of his poor little crushed body, thinking of how miserable he’ll be, as he falls...  

The thing that isn’t quite Brian is…nuzzling his cheek. Pat blinks, comes back to Earth. Oh good. He’s not dead yet. There’s something, at least.  

“Thanks for being chill,” Pat murmurs. “You have no idea how much I appreciate it.” He lets the beast sniff around his body a bit more, pushing his arms up, fucking up his hair, yanking up his shirt to claw—lightly, lightly—down his skinny chest. He tries to be pliant and keep his throat exposed and for the love of god not make any sudden and delicious movements.  

Eventually, the creature is satisfied and it just fucking curls up next to Pat and falls asleep. He’s gonna have some holes in his shirt tomorrow, but it honestly feels like progress.  

  
  
  


Brian is so angry when he comes to.  

“You _maniac_ ,” he screeches, ripping at his hair. Pat nearly has to pin him down—it’s not as hard as it should be, afterward Brian is usually weak and listless—to stop him from beating at his own head with his fists. “You—I saw you—I fucking saw you—you let me _touch_ you—I almost _killed_ you—”

“You didn’t,” Pat tries to explain, and also tries to stop the kid from headbutting him in the nose. “You really didn’t. You just smelled me and then fell asleep, dude. Not a scratch on me.”

“I saw you,” Brian is crying and fighting hysterically, now, kicking at Pat, trying to push him away. Pat grunts when a good pointy knee lands in his gut. “I saw your—I had your neck—it would have been one second—”

“Could’ve, yeah. But wasn’t. You kept it under control. So, like, shouldn’t we explore that a little? To see if it’ll help?”

“ _NO_ . I didn’t do shit, Pat. I can’t _control_ it. I just get to fucking see through its eyes while it murders you.”

Pat’s heart tightens. “You didn’t murder me. But I _am_ sorry. I shouldn’t’ve got so close, without telling you before. That was thoughtless.”  

“Fuck _thoughtless_ ,”  Brian bucks under him, a faint echo of his former strength. “Try unhinged. Get the fuck off me, Pat. Let me go. We’re fucking done, with this. I’m not coming back. This is over. I’m not going to be your fucking suicide pact.”  

Pat is sorry, but not sorry enough to promise never to do it again. Brian is distraught, and afraid, and won’t listen to reason.  

It’s heartbreaking, when he leaves, still red-faced angry, crying, so weak he’s stumbling. Pat hopes he doesn’t fall down on the subway. Pat hopes he’ll change his mind. Pat hopes that his own instincts are right.  

  
  
  
  


The next transformation, Brian goes it alone.  

Pat doesn’t ask him where he goes. Maybe Newark again, but probably not. Probably Brian wouldn’t go back to the same place, for fear that Pat would find him.  

Pat wouldn’t try, actually. Yes, he did stalk the kid at first, maybe to satisfy his obsessive curiosity or maybe to try and be a good friend, but this is different.  

You can’t push this. Either Brian trusts Pat, or he doesn’t, and that’s gonna be it.

It’s tricky, navigating the sideways glances at work. Fielding questions. Cutting his thoughts off at the root, when he sees the kid walk by. But all that shit is boring. Normal. He’s been dumped before, and this is much the same. He can fucking handle it, even if it takes some liquor and messy crying. None of that compares to how hard it is for Brian.

Brian uses all his paid time-off. Then, six of his sick days. He starts working from home two days a week. Pat tries to keep his notes up, the next couple months, but they’re subdued, short. It’s hard to tell how Brian’s doing, when he’s so guarded, and so clothed, and so good at avoiding Pat’s presence.  

What little he can glean isn’t good, though.  

> **Hi Laura. Wanted to check in about Brian** **  
> ** **Make sure he’s okay**
> 
> **hi pat. yeah, he’s fine! keeping himself busy** **  
> ** **im taking care of him! when he lets me**
> 
> **Thanks. Thats a relief  
>  ** **Im glad that he has you  
>  ** **He needs somebody**
> 
> **pat  
>  ** **god  
>  ** **i wish you guys were still together  
>  ** **i shouldn’t talk to you about this  
>  ** **but im so fucking lost  
>  ** **i think he’s hurting hismelf**
> 
> **I know**
> 
> **he wont talk to me about it  
>  ** **he talks to me about *everything* pat  
>  ** **why wont he talk to me about this  
>  ** **why did he  
>  ** **i dunno**
> 
> **Why did he talk to me about it?  
>  ** **I forced the issue  
>  ** **Cant say I recommend that though  
>  ** **Seems like it backfired**
> 
> **god  
>  ** **what do i do pat**
> 
> **Heh  
>  ** **I’m not sure if i’m the best person to give advice for this  
>  Ive already fucked it up laura  
>  Im a real asshole**
> 
> **please pat  
>  ** **i know you care about him  
>  ** **just tell me what to do**
> 
> **You’re doing the right thing  
>  ** **Be there for him when he lets you  
>  ** **He cant control it  
>  ** **Be patient with him  
>  ** **But give him his space when he has an episode, okay?  
>  Or hell freak and run away  
>  ** **And I really dont want him to be alone with this**
> 
> **ok  
>  ** **thanks patrick  
>  ** **youre a saint. i hope he didnt hurt you too badly. hes not himself right now  
>  ** **i hate how angry he gets**
> 
> **Its fine  
>  ** **He was angry but he was right**
> 
> **ugh thats even worse  
>  ** **take care pat  
>  ** **ill keep you posted**
> 
> **Thanks Laura**

  
  
  


Finally, Simone corners Pat into coming over to her place, and her eyes are sad and also worried, and he knows it’s going to be about Brian. He goes with her, anyway.  

“Look, Pat, I know you guys broke up—” she starts, and he suppresses the flinch with a sigh. “He broke up with you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Pat says, because it’s definitely the best approximation of his disaster of a life.  

“Fuck. That makes this a little harder.”  

“No shit, Simone.”  

“Sorry.” She bites her lip, and looks genuinely sad for him. He appreciates that. He also appreciates that she thinks he could land a catch like Brian. “I just am worried about him, but—”  

Pat sighs. “Yeah, I know it’s weird to talk about his business with me. But I’d still like to know. He’s going through a rough time right now, and obviously I can’t help him.”  

“About that,” she says, taps her fingers on the table. “Do you know if he’s in another relationship?”

“Honestly, no.” Pat shrugs, and stuffs down something sharp and cold. “Could be. Why?”  

“Because someone is beating the _shit_ out of him, Pat. He’s a good actor, and he wears makeup, but I can tell. He hasn’t worn shorts all spring. He’s limping this week and—haven’t you noticed?” She narrows her eyes.  

“I try to stay out of his way,” Pat lies. “Because it’s kinda painful.”  

“This is not the reaction I was expecting, Pat.” Simone glares. “You’re bullshitting me. You’ve seen. You should be flipping out. What the fuck do you know?”  

Pat closes his eyes. How can he possibly explain this. “I can’t tell you that.”

Simone is digging her fingers into his arm, looking up at him. “Someone is _hurting_ him, Pat.”  

“Yes,” Pat agrees. “That is true.” Maybe an abusive relationship isn’t quite the right mental framework, but it’s probably about as good as they’re gonna get without Pat ending up in a psych ward.  

“Fuck. What do we do?”

Pat looks at her, helplessly. “I tried, Simone. I really did. I know he needs help. I know I can help him. But—” he gestures. “I can’t make him trust me. I can’t call the cops for him. I can’t do shit.”  

Simone looks pretty shook up, and he puts his hand on hers, consolingly. “Jesus, Pat. Is this why you broke up? Did you make an ultimatum or something?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Pat says carefully. “Not quite so dramatic. But yeah, I tried to help. He didn’t want me fucking with it. He’s really—he’s really angry at himself right now. For a lot of reasons. He’s pretty much self-destructing. I think breaking up with me was just part of that, honestly, although maybe I’m flattering myself.”

“You’re not,” Simone sighs, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Yeah. That tracks. Okay. I guess I’ll figure out what to do next, then. Before he implodes.”  

“Good luck,” Pat says.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s only three rainy April days later when Brian shows up on his doorstep, without a coat, sopping wet. He’s crying, and he’s shaking, and he’s apologizing, and he’s still angry, but he’s there.  

Pat will have to remember to send Simone a fucking _incredible_ Christmas present.  

Once Pat pulls him in and towels him off and sits him down—then stands him back up again, and says _get out of your wet clothes, you can wear some of mine_ —they reconvene after that, to talk.  

“So,” Pat starts, because the kid is just looking at his hands. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Brian says in a small voice. “And not just because—of that.”  

It makes his heart twist a little, in a good way, but he stays silent.  

“Simone talked to me,” he sighs. “She’s smart.”  

“She is,” Pat agrees. “Whenever she tells me off it means I’m doing something stupid.”  

“She didn’t tell me off.” Brian’s hands are shaking so bad, now. “I mean, not exactly. She called me out. For what I was doing. Or I guess. Planning to do.”  

Pat’s hands grip his coffee cup hard, and he places it down on the table. Puts his hands on Brian’s knees. “Brian. Jesus. What were you…what were you planning…to do?”  

Brian looks up, catches his eyes, and his face is so sad. And Pat knows.  

“Oh, Brian.” He sighs. The kid collapses into a puddle of exhausted, miserable, tears. He clutches Pat’s tshirt and sobs and sobs for a long time. Pat murmurs apologies and consolations and gratitude and affections, in the soft rumbling calm tone he knows that both Brians like.  

  


 

 

When finally Brian falls asleep, in Pat’s arms, he just stays there. Fuck it, if his arm is gonna fall asleep. Fuck it, if they’re both late for work tomorrow, and tired and unshaved, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Fuck it, if he never goes to work again.  

He kisses Brian’s head and holds him close and murmurs _I’ve got you._

  
  


 

Brian comes over the next night, too. It’s not nearly time, yet, but he just does. Pat cooks him dinner. They talk about goofy stuff. They play games. They go to bed.  

It’s hard, watching Brian take off his shirt. He’s real fucked up. Pale as a ghost, and thin again. His scapula cuts out of his back like a blade, Pat’s thumb can feel every knob in his spine. It’s hard to tell what some of the bruises are from—slamming into the edges of furniture, maybe—but the scratches and abrasions are from claws and teeth and fighting hard against his bonds.  

Pat touches an ugly, raw rope burn around the base of his neck. “What’s that from, Brian.”  

Brian shivers. “Nothing. It was a bad idea.”  

He lets his fingers trace along it. He doesn’t like to imagine either Brian, tugging that hard against something, choking the life out of him. It’s hard to put into words, but he makes kind of a guttered sound and just says, “You must have hurt your voice.”  

“A little,” Brian confesses.  

He’s rests his exploring hand on Brian’s shoulder. Feels the shudder and relaxation of his body.  

“You’re so fuckin brave,” Pat says, although he wants to say _beautiful_.  

“I’m not,” Brian sighs. “I’m just scared of the wrong things.”

Pat bites his lip, hard. “What’s that supposed to mean, kid?”

“I should be scared of hurting you.”

“Eh, I give you permission to hurt me.”

“You can’t do that, Pat,” Brian scowls. “That’s stupid.”

“Tell that to my last girlfriend. You’re not the first girl to scratch me up.”

Brian huffs angrily, but Pat thinks it might be hiding a snort. “It’s not the _same_ , Pat. You can’t stop me. It’s not safe.”

“It’s not,” Pat agrees. “But still. Kinda into that. Look, don’t out my kinks to Simone and I won’t tell your sister we do puppy play.”

The kid laughs, then, and smacks him, and Pat makes a fake lecherous smile and Brian’s body relaxes a little. “God, Pat. I really shouldn’t let you do this.”

Pat knows what the answer to _why not_ is, so instead he asks, “So why are you, then?”

Brian sobers. “I’m scared of doing it alone again. You—I don’t know why you’re doing it, but—you make it so much better, Pat. Thank you.”

Pat shrugs. “I try. Glad it helps.”

“It doesn’t just _help_ , “ Brian says, and his stare is so intense with pain that Pat drops his gaze—the bruise on his neck is equally hard to look at, though—but his gaze really _shouldn’t_ drop further—he wavers— “It’s—something about you makes it _different_ , Pat. Physically. He’s less wild. He thinks less about…about hurting…things. Some sick part of him _wants_ you there.” Brian lets out a tortured breath. “And maybe I do too, because I’m selfish. I like eating dinner with you and talking to you and playing video games and letting you make me hot chocolate and listen to me cry.”

“You can come over for that stuff any time of the month, you know,” Pat murmurs.

“I’d like that,” Brian says distantly. “But he’s not satisfied unless he gets to see you, too.”

Pat shudders out a breath. It’s tough, how that makes him feel. Good, but also—guilty. Brian’s sharing all his secrets. Pat owes him a few.  

“Can I ask you something?”  

“Of course,” Brian stills.  

“Simone thinks we’re together. Your sister does, too.”  

“I know,” Brian says, voice colored with a little guilt. “Sorry. I kind of—it was the easiest way to—to explain—I swore Laura to secrecy. Simone, I didn’t—but I swear—I’ll tell her—”

“I’m not upset about it. It’s flattering. You don’t have to say anything. That’s not what I’m asking.” Brian goes still again, at that.  

“So what are you asking?”

Fuck. It’s too much. He can’t, not now, not when the kid has just finished crying on his shoulder.  

“Do you wanna sleep over?” He amends. “Not to be weird. Just because—well, you’ll be doing it in a couple weeks anyway. And if we’re gonna pretend we’re back together, you might as well.” 

“Thank you,” Brian sighs in relief, and Pat feels like a coward.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SUMMARY: pat gets too brave in february, and the monster is very strong and pins him down. it turns out monster-brian just wants to sniff pat's hair and fall asleep on him. pat thinks maybe he's making progress. brian gets a flash of memory for this encounter afterward and is furious at pat for taking risks. he leaves and says he's not coming back. pat's sad. in march, brian does the transformation on his own. laura keeps in contact with pat, because she's worried brian. simone corners pat and thinks someone is hurting brian--possibly a new boyfriend? simone talks brian into coming back. he shows up in april, feeling immensely guilty, but having missed pat terribly. pat contemplates sharing some of his feelings with brian, but chickens out. 
> 
>  
> 
> so like. it's a bunch of angst chaps in a row here. srry bout that. kinda like pulling off a bandaid but im doing it slow and also there's approximately 4 other bandaids in succession here sooooo. i promise this is worst 'brian is very sad' bandaid.


	3. the inmost cave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. 
> 
>  
> 
> **\- Edgar Allen Poe**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: this is the chapter where the fic earns all its sex and violence tags. no mental health stuff tho. it is vivid and we do not cut away. see endnote for summary if you wanna check what happens, or skip entirely.

Pat is frustrated by the Romantics. Maybe poetry isn’t his thing. He vaguely remembers reading sonnets in high school, and he thinks he could remember liking it—unpicking the wordplay did fun things to his brain. But these poems don’t tickle his funnybone the way his lit teacher did, when she’d drop the book and wiggle her eyebrows and say  _ now, who wants to venture a close reading on ‘But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure.’ _

These poems aren’t sexy. Half the time, they’re about like—Greek gods or medieval friezes or even about  _ other poems _ —and Pat feels stupid and confused that he doesn’t catch the allusions. The ones he  _ does  _ understand, though, he doesn’t much like either. They’re sprawling and messy and overwrought and painfully pining. Always some full-grown man weeping about how pretty a tree is, or lying on the beach and being miserable, or some kinda nice lovey-dovey piece that Brian points out is a metaphor, usually for death. Ugh. These guys are always jerking you around, with their sloppy emotions.

“You’re  _ supposed _ to feel like that. He literally wrote this so you’d feel the emotions he was feeling. All his work is trying to like build this extreme version of self and then draw you into it close.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I wanna get that close to people who thought tuberculosis was  _ sexy _ , Bri.”

Brian grins, shuts his book, rests it on his lap. “Fair enough. Maybe we should switch to Beats. They might fit your aesthetic more.” 

Pat shoves the kid. “That sounds like a dig. I don’t wear a beret.” 

“I didn’t mean like  _ that _ —I meant, like, they’re…” he hesitates, eyes Pat, and then smiles. “A little darker. Kinda violent. And very obscene.” 

“I’m gonna choose to ignore those implications,” Pat tries to conjure a tone of supreme unaffectedness.

Brian is fun to watch, when he’s trying to figure out how to change the subject. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


It might be bad, Brian warns Pat, the next time. The beast has been angry, lately. Brian’s not sure if that kind of thing carries over, month-to-month. But just in case, Pat needs to stay far away.  

Pat agrees. He’s seen the marks. He knows that it could go bad.  

The sight of Brian’s body changing isn’t beautiful, but it isn’t horrible either. It doesn’t disgust him. The way the dark thing ripples, courses through him. His skin changes, somehow—where it’s pale and thin, on his wrists, under his eyes, it’s most noticeable there. When the thing wakes, its skin looks  _ bright  _ and strong, like he’s just had a good tan and a long nap. 

The change is the wretched part. The pain of it. How Brian’s body jerks and writhes, sweat-soaked hair and stifled moans. Pat wishes he could hold him, for that part, even though he’s sure it wouldn’t help.  But anyway. He promised he’d stay well clear. So they could both be safe. 

The thing  _ bursts  _ to life, angry and thrashing, clawing at its ankle and throwing itself, over and over again, teeth first, into the center of the room. Its claws rip into the wood of the floor. A few books go flying, a lamp. Pat swears and flinches—there’s broken glass, fuck—the thing whips its head around to see him.

Pat swallows. Well. Here they go. “Hey, big guy. Long time no see. How’re you doin?” 

He gets a growl. Brian’s hackles are raised. He’s putting himself into position, ever so slowly, as if to pounce. The chain will probably hold, but it still makes Pat’s heart pound.  

“C’mon, you remember me,” Pat says from his spot on the floor. He’s got one leg out, the other hitched up, letting his hands rest where they lay and looking neither scared nor threatening. “It’s Patrick. We’re cool, remember? I feed you, I pet you, you don’t slice me up?” 

More growling. Shit. They’ve lost ground, then.  

“You’re gonna hurt yourself if you try and come at me,” Patrick sighs. “What if you break your ankle? Brian has health insurance, but I don’t think he’s gonna be willing to go in for a few days, at least. Then where’d you be. Just with a broken ankle and no one to help.”  

His tone, more than the words, is working to at least put the hint of recognition in the thing’s eyes. Brian’s still baring his teeth, but they’re not looking quite so murdery at the moment. The movement is focused, toward Pat, but not pouncing—just moving as far as it can, straining toward him. 

Pat watches the creature reach out, clawing the air shy of Pat’s foot. It whimpers. Pat is struck with an odd affection, a wistfulness. He’s missed this. Of  _ course _ , he’s missed Brian, but it’s also strange that he missed  _ this part.  _ The part where a murderous creature with a lovable face reaches out to him, plaintively, for the only human contact it gets in all the world. Poor Fluffy. Pat relates to him a little, sometimes. 

“Okay, but I’m gonna get a big _ I told you so _ from your twin if this goes bad, between us.” Pat lectures, sliding his foot a little closer. He stays on the ground, just moves himself forward, scooching, until the claws can graze his bare toes. He pauses and looks up at the red eyes, which are locked on his face. 

The beast whimpers. It scratches at him a little—not hard, but not ambiguously either. It wants him closer, to pull him in. 

Pat takes in a breath. The thing-that-in-many-ways-resembles-Brian was  _ so  _ angry, just moments before. But he’s not now—and Pat doesn’t think this Brian is actually capable of duplicity. 

Brian’s calmer now, and he wants to touch Pat, and at least that much can probably be trusted. The fact that Pat’s not already been thrown out the window by his big toe is probably as much insurance as he’s ever going to get. He’s going to do it, eventually. Might as well be now. 

It goes...bad. 

 

 

 

 

When he slides a little closer, Brian grabs him hard by the knee and pulls, yanking his back across the wood floor, sliding him close and swift and deadly. Pat elects to let the creature have its way, because what choice does he have? It worked before. But it’s not quite like last time. Last time, it nosed all over, smelling him, mussing him up, and then it seemed satisfied for Pat to lie motionless.  

This time, the beast  _ pins  _ him down, fast. He’s rolled over—

and his arm is hitched behind his back in an unbreakable grip—

face ground into the floor— 

claws digging into his forearm. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Pat swears, half at the pain, half at fear as the creature pins his hips, driving Brian’s knee hard into the small of his back. His leg is forced up, other arm pinned uselessly below him—

the strength is just  _ tremendous _ —

it doesn’t seem possible, that something in Brian’s body could be so much heavier than Brian—

but Pat  _ knows  _ he’s picked up Brian before, with no trouble, and he also knows this thing is heavy enough that Pat is absolutely fucking  _ not  _ getting up without permission. 

It hurts, but he’s not dead yet, so he keeps talking. 

“Missed you too. Wasn’t my idea, I swear. But uh, I kinda need my kidneys, some days, so I’d appreciate if you’d finish up back there and— _ aiee _ !” 

He yelps a little, because the thing tightens its grip and it fucking  _ hurts _ , like his shoulder will be wrenched out of its socket. The sharp pains on his forearm begin to trickle, and he knows he’s bleeding. Oh, fucking  _ hell—  _

The thing is panting, moving, shifting over him, and  _ god  _ it hurts, and it’s terrifying, because there are about six different ways Pat could die right now and none of them are  _ in bed of old age. _

He doesn’t even realize Brian has flipped around the other way until he feels a foot kick his neck on its way somewhere else—

somewhere that relieves the pressure on his lower back and his hips but leaves him pinned—

face down, with Brian sitting squarely on his back and licking the arm pulled up, sharp, in front of him.  

“ _ Je—sus _ Christ,” Pat gasps, because he can feel the teeth. They’re razor-sharp. They don’t seem to be biting, though, just hitting against the skin while the thing laps at his blood hungrily. “ _ Plee-ah-ease _ , don’t break my arm,” Pat begs, as the thing yanks his wrist, trying to get a better angle. “I write with that one. Please, dude. I got deadlines to meet.”  

It ignores him, draws its claws down the back of his arm again, more intentionally, slicing new, deeper lines.  

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Pat swears, at the sting and the shock of it, and then he whimpers as these, too, are subject to the attentions of the creature’s tongue. Its little breathy pants of excitement contrast with Pat’s jagged, terrified breathing. It’s so much, the weight of the creature, the splash of hot blood, the lapping. This is going to be a fucking weird way to die. 

Still, he knows better than to struggle.  

Finally, it lets him go. Kind of. It lets his arms loose, at least, stops sitting on him with its unbelievable weight. Pat doesn’t get up, but he does slowly roll onto his back. His glasses are broken, or at least lost somewhere, but it’s okay, he has good enough vision to see the smear of his blood on Brian’s lips. 

That thought is shoved away by the claws at his neck. 

Pat closes his eyes and tips his head back. At least the thing likes him enough to kill him quickly. Rather than tearing his arms off and making him watch while Brian’s face eats them. Things could be worse.  

The claws don’t slash, though, they just sit. Threatening. 

With his other hand, Brian-not-Brian is ripping Pat’s shirt to shreds, exposing skin and sometimes nicking him with a loose swipe. Nothing brutal.  

“You can just ask next time,” Pat says, strained, as the hand leaves his neck and the beast goes to work slitting his jeans up as well, biting through his belt in one attempt. “I liked that shirt.”  

He’s naked then, and bleeding, under the thing, and it’s looking at him, teeth bared, claws resting on his stomach, and he tries not to think about how easily those teeth just cut through thick denim and, by the way, also leather, and also, how long does it take to die if something cuts open your abdomen, cause Pat’s heard it’s a long time, but maybe he’ll get lucky.  

The thing is staring, as if trying to figure out what to do next. There’s a long pause. It seems—well, somewhat murderous, and somewhat not. Not like it’s going to curl up and go to sleep, that’s for sure. But maybe also not like it’s going to kill him. Or maybe it’s trying to remember how to butcher something and save the best parts for last. 

“You’re the boss, here, hot stuff,” Pat says, gently. “So, what’re you gonna do with me.” 

Brian’s face is so strange, when he’s like this. It’s enough like him that it’s still beautiful, but his long hair seems wild and fierce rather than soft and sweet. The teeth, too, take a cute soft mouth and turn it into a fierce thing, all angles and terrible strength. The eyes are the same, except the redness, and the intensity—which is alien, and yet not alien on Brian’s face. It tends to look like he’s just gotten the best, wickedest, most terrible idea for a Gill and Gilbert episode ever, and he’s about to pitch it to Pat and do it so well that he makes Pat say yes, and also that the idea is for him to flay off all of Pat’s skin.  

The creature’s claws are moving south, and Pat doesn’t have an erection, not really, but he has been harboring a secret crush on his heavily traumatized coworker for the better part of a year, and sleeping next to him in bed, and it does give him a little shudder when said crush-slash-creature starts stroking his thighs. He moves them apart post-haste because again, the claws: sharp. 

Pat closes his eyes. If this ends in him getting maimed, he probably deserves it. 

There’s some movement—

non-slashing movement, thank god—

some pulling—then—he feels—

his eyes snap open. Oh jesus fucking christ in heaven with lord almighty— 

Brian’s boxers are off, too, and yes, that is the tip of his cock nudging against Pat’s thigh, his claws under Pat’s ass, not slashing but pulling him closer.  

“Oh god,” Pat feels his guts clench in absolute terror, and if he weren’t about to throw up, he would probably be better able to appreciate the irony of being so horrified of something he’s been dreaming of seeing for literal months. Irony is for people who aren’t about to get fucked to death, though, and Pat is concentrating on propping himself up on his elbows and kicking out with his feet, trying to pull back as quick as he can

—he’s panting “no, _ no _ , no, fuck, for the love of—” 

and lands a kick and twists 

—it’s hilariously ineffective. Brian catches his ankles easily, keeping him within arms reach, holding them apart. He’s baring his teeth again. The gaze that meets Pat’s eyes is hungry, uncomprehending.  

Pat drops his head hard onto the floor and sobs, because struggling is really pointless, here, as is appealing to reason, or bargaining, or anything else except exactly whatever this thing wants to do with him. “Please,” he begs, anyway. “Please,  _ please  _ don’t. He’ll never forgive himself. God, please don’t—I can’t—” 

_ Fuck _ , he hopes he doesn’t die. He hopes Brian doesn’t get a flash of this. He hopes he doesn’t scream so loud the neighbors call the cops. He hopes— 

Brian pushes one of his legs up, grabs him by the thigh, dragging him so he’s close again, lifting him somewhat off the ground. It’s painful, the burn on his back of the wood grain, but Pat is focusing on the hot, sticky bulge pressing against his asscheek, and on breathing, and crying, and trying to relax and not form too many memories of this moment, if such a thing is possible, because he doesn’t want to flinch the next time he looks Brian in the face.   

He’s babbling—begging—struggling a bit, and something about the whimpering and sniveling seems to slow the monster down. Maybe desperation is a universal language to all things. Pat forces himself up on his elbows again, trying to look at the thing that is not Brian and just let loose a string of every pathetic feeble hopeless fearful thing he can muster up.  

“Please, please don’t.  _ Please _ . I can’t—I’ve never—I’m not—If you fuck me like this you’ll hurt me. You don’t want to hurt me. You  _ like  _ me. We’re  _ friends _ . I feed you—I pet you—I know you’re not—you haven’t killed me, you haven’t eaten me—please don’t do this—”  

The creature just seems confused, frankly, but when Pat stops talking the confusion eases and he’s yanking on Pat’s hips again, growling with strange and terrifying desire, so Pat keeps on talking, reaches out a hand— 

“ _ Fuck, _ fuck—I get it, I know—I know you want—that, okay—I know you can take what you want—blood, sex, food, anything—please— _ please _ don’t—I’ll be so fucking scared—I won’t be able to hold still—you’ll have to do so much work holding me down—just please—instead—let me—” 

He gets a hand on Brian’s dick, and the creature makes a sound that is still confused, but more positive, Pat thinks, so he gives it a bit more, squeezing and stroking, thumbing the tip with a swirl in a way that he hopes is universally desired by men and monsters with penises the world over.  

“Yes—please? Please just let me jerk you off instead. Then we can cuddle. It’ll be great, I swear.”  

Again, the confusion, but Brian is letting go of his thigh, letting Pat pull himself up and eagerly get another hand in there to help. He tries to make his hands tight and hot and pull hard against Brian’s length. His pacing’s shot to shit, but maybe all this has been enough foreplay, anyway.  

There’s a pause, and Brian lets go of his other ankle, makes a strangled sort of groaning sound, lets Pat come to his knees for better access, rests a clawed arm on Pat’s shoulder. He’s leaning in, seeming to enjoy the pressure, and only barely holding Pat at all. Pat’s heart freezes—maybe he can—dart away, just now, while he’s distracted—get out of arm’s reach—with some impressive but survivable scars— 

But fuck it. This is definitely the most high-stakes handjob he’s ever given, but it’s not the first, and he doesn’t even mind, really, as long as they’re in agreement about the not-fucking-him-dry part. Just in case, he sneaks his hand up to his mouth and licks it—his mouth is pretty dry with all the fear and panting, but his reasoning is if he can get some saliva on there it’ll be better—in case— 

Actually, why not just go for broke, Pat decides suddenly, and drops down to take Brian’s cock in his mouth. He can rationalize this decision later, for now he’s just focusing on sucking hard and prostrating himself effectively to get some depth as Brian’s hips jerk into his throat. It’s a tough angle, until he shifts onto all fours—he does  _ not  _ stop sucking, though, because he’s not _ stupid _ —and leans on his bloody forearm, and bobs up and down with recklessness born of desperation.  

Brian’s not gentle, but he doesn’t fuck so hard that he breaks Pat’s nose, so he’s showing some impressive restraint. Pat tries to chokes and blink back tears and force his jaw open wide and willing and use his hands in whatever way he thinks makes sense. The claws scratch down his exposed back, but not cruelly, so he doesn’t think that’s a bad sign necessarily.   

It’s not long before the jolts get really sharp, and Pat hopes to god that means he’s close because if he gags one more time on Brian’s cock he might actually throw up and maybe that’ll turn the kid off and he  _ doesn’t fucking have a plan b, okay.  _ His guess is right, and with a few more violent upward thrusts, Brian comes hard and hot in his throat with a savage groan. 

Pat swallows, and ignores the blood running down his forearm, and the ache in his jaw, and any thoughts in his brain, at all. 

Then he collapses to the ground and tries not to tremble too much, as the creature moves. Brian is nuzzling him again. He pulls Pat close, hard but not violently, and although it makes him gasp it doesn’t seem to be more than a sign of affection. Brian is licking at his face, which scares the living shit out of Pat, because the fangs, but he thinks might actually be the kid trying to clean him off a bit from all the crying.  

“S-so,” he stammers into Brian’s mouth. “That was g-good for you, then?”  

He’s being pulled again, this time into Brian’s bed—the mattress on the floor, really—and the thing curls around him like a satisfied cat.  

“Oh, so you were serious about the cuddles,” Pat sighs, as the arms grip him tightly. He’s fucking exhausted, because the fear is wearing off, and he’s gonna need energy in the morning, to clean this all up. He might as well just fucking go to sleep, his body is telling him. He’s not gonna be getting up any time soon, if waking Brian might be encouraging him to try for round two. 

The thing is snoring near Pat’s ear, and it’s oddly sweet. Pat has missed that snore. He’s bleeding, and his jaw is aching, but he’s not dead, and he’s patched it up with Brian—both Brians—somehow, and although he has some trepidations about tomorrow at least he also has some interesting fucking notes to write up. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“What happened?” Brian says when he wakes up properly, which are the best two words Pat’s heard in months. “Did I—did I hurt you? There’s—Pat, you changed clothes. Oh, God…” 

“Hey, I’m fine,” Pat holds up his hands. “Really. Just a few scratches.”  

“Your face is cut,” Brian observes, from where he’s trembling on the mattress, clutching his chest like he’s about to have a panic attack. He looks so tired, so incredibly frail, that Pat can’t help but get down on his knees and take him into his arms. “Where are your glasses? Oh god—what did I do to you—I’m so sorry—I should never have—” 

“Kid, relax,” Pat says soothingly, stroking his back. “Listen. Your other half was a little ticked I went missing, that’s all. Gave me the business. We worked it out. Cuddled all night, if you can believe it.” 

“Oh my god,” Brian moans, burying his face into Pat’s shoulder with exhausted, desperate tears. “P-pat—there’s blood in my mouth, Pat—what did I do—” 

Pat had done a pretty good cleanup job—floor, sheets, his clothes, Brian’s clothes, everything he could think of—but blood in the mouth can’t be helped, he supposes. “You didn’t bite me. But you scratched me up a little.” He presents his forearm for Brian’s inspection, showing the long parallel grooves from the claws. “And then you, um. Licked it. Which was fine, albeit a bit spooky. It didn’t give me murder vibes.”  

Brian shudders, touches the marks gingerly. “These are deep, Pat. These are gonna need stitches. And then I—if I was that close—I couldv’e—” 

“But you didn’t,” Pat consoles. “I told you, me and Fluffy have an understanding.”  

“But your face—” 

Pat coughs. “Well. Maybe  _ had  _ an understanding. Relationship’s a little rocky at the moment, but I don’t think he was really trying to bust me up. Just like, some classic older-brother bullying. I think he just doesn’t know his own strength.”  

“Fuck,” Brian’s definitely starting to hyperventilate. “Pat, I—that’s so—how could I have—I don’t even remember—” 

“Shhhhh,” says Pat. “Just trust me, okay? I’ll work it out with him. I promise.”

It’s clear that Brian wants to protest more, but he’s so distraught and so exhausted that he just lets Pat hold him close for a while, whispering soft reassurances in his ears.  

  
  
  
  


 

Brian works from home—Pat’s home—but Pat goes to work, partially because he needs to run some errands on his way in and out. New glasses. More food.

Also, though he hates to admit it, Pat needs a chance to  _ get out of that fucking house _ . 

He knows that no one in the office could possibly miss the black eye, but also no one asks him about it, probably because coming at Pat with questions when he has  _ that  _ look on his face is downright irresponsible. The HR department has better shit to do. 

Simone, though. She’s not afraid of Pat’s scowl, and Pat fucking owes her one. So when she grabs his arm in the hallway and he startles so hard that the sheer embarrassment of it would normally precipitate him saying some pretty despicable shit, he stops himself. 

“Hey, can we talk real quick?” she asks.  

“Um, kinda busy, but—” he tries to pull away, but  he’s not really up to fighting her right now. “Okay. What about?” 

“Just wanted to ask if you’re okay,” Simone says, and then raises an eyebrow. “And maybe congratulate you?” 

“On…?” 

“Well, I might be presuming too much, but Brian and you have been leaving work together again lately, and you might not know this, Patrick, but your face looks  _ fabulously  _ rugged right now. I hope—” her voice turns up, curiously, “the other guy looks worse, maybe?”  

“Simone, you know me better than that,” Pat sighs. “There’s not a scratch on him.”  

She laughs, and pats him on the back anyway. “Well, fuck it. At least you got in a big-boy fight and lived to tell about it. Brian okay? I know he’s not at work today.”  

“He’s at my place,” Pat reassures her. “And he’s fine. Little shaken up, but no worse for the wear.”  

“God, Pat,” Simone glows, “I know violence isn’t the answer and all, and you look like you got the shit kicked out of you, but I’m so fucking happy for you.”  

“Thanks,” Pat colors. “I dunno if it’s warranted, yet. We’re on shaky ground. But I’ll let you know if I don’t fuck it up.”   

“You’re going for it,” she says, “and that’s the important thing. You have to fucking try.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IN THIS CHAPTER: pat gets close to the beast again. it pins him down, claws him up a bit, and scares him very badly. he tries to stay relaxed and get control of the situation. the beast makes a move to rape him, pat is terrified but compromises w/other sex acts that won't injure him. things sort of work out with cuddles. brian wakes up and doesn't remember. pat is relieved, and a bit shaken. simone sees how broken up pat's face is and assumes that he got in a fight with brian's abusive bf, and congratulates him on it.
> 
>  
> 
> next chapter is a bit more fluffy. (hee)


	4. the abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> throw roses into the abyss and say: 'here is my thanks to the monster who didn't succeed in swallowing me alive.’
> 
>  
> 
> **\- Friedrich Nietzsche**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: discussion of suicidal ideation (mostly just indirect, between worried characters), depressed thought patterns, discussion of mental health treatment, and a very violent scene
> 
> hmu in comments if i should write a chap summaryy

When he gets back home, everything feels suspiciously normal, except for the scrapes, the bruises, and that when Brian begs Pat to sleep on the couch for thirty solid minutes, Pat eventually gives in. 

“Fine,” Pat grumbles. “If it’ll make you happy.”

“Oh thank  _ God _ ,” Brian says, and although he doesn’t seem  _ happy  _ exactly, his expression at least gets a little less wretched. It twists Pat in a weird way, like when you know you can swerve out of a head-on collision, but not fast enough to stop from running someone else off the road.

He pushes the feeling away, and works on helping Brian make dinner, which mostly means crossing his arms and leaning against the wall and trying to hand over the right jars when Brian thinks of something to ask for, to make Pat feel useful. 

“These are  _ not  _ capers, Pat,” Brian starts to laugh at him, then his eyes catch on the bandage again and his expression stops short in midair. 

“Shows what you know,” Pat crosses his arms sullenly, the other way. “Olives are basically just big capers, right?”

“Not at  _ all _ , Pat. Oh my god.” 

“Don’t give me that. Not all of us can keep up with your high-falutin’ pantry staples and your homemade kimchi.”

The kid dimples. “That wasn’t me, it was Laura. I just mooch off her good taste.”

“Ah.” He reaches for another joke, but it’s not there. Not right now. “Thank her for me.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It’s  _ kind of  _ normal, sitting on the sofa and eating dinner on the coffee table and talking about what Brian’s been reading, but it’s also kind of not. It feels weird. Because Pat hasn’t done it in a while. He gets weird, when he’s out of practice being close to someone. 

A few gin and tonics, as usual, help him remember how to do human contact, and he stops having to suppress a wince every time Brian moves a little too fast. It’s good, because the kid is loosening up too, and Brian moves fast, as a matter of course. 

“Bri, we already figured out I’m not cut out for poetry. I’m never gonna read it.”  

“It’s good _ , _ ” Brian insists. “I  _ swear _ . Give it a try. You liked my Langston Hughes.” 

“Yeah but those were mostly eight lines long—fuck, actually, I need to give that back to you. Before I forget. Hang on.” 

He scrambles over the kid’s legs to go find it. It’s been a couple months, and it’s shocking how bad Pat can lose something in that span of time, even though his apartment consists of two rooms.

When he comes back, Brian’s off the couch, doing dishes. He’s scrubbing away at something with a distant expression, and Pat hangs back, unsure whether to make a joke about his careless use of dish soap or just to leave him to his thoughts. He drops the book and decides to start a movie, although he knows Brian won’t sit and watch it with him, tonight. Once he gets the slightest whiff of tiredness he’s on his feet, moving continuously and exhaustingly until it’s time they both go to bed. 

“D’you think it’s ever going to get better?” Brian asks, suddenly. 

“It will,” Pat says immediately, firmly, like he’s completely convinced and older and wiser and knows a lot more about it than Brian does. Like he always does when the kid asks this question. Brian asks it a lot, especially if he’s been drinking. 

“I don’t think so.” Brian’s scrubbing with the old beat-up sponge. “None of the mythology really mentions anything about cures. Or the clinical literature.”

“The medical stuff is bullshit,” Pat snaps. “We’ve established that, okay.” 

“I dunno.” He’s rinsing, putting things on the rack. The water must be hot, his hands are beet-red. “Most of it doesn’t fit, but you know...some things…”

Pat snorts. “It’s all trash. You’re not delusional. And I still can’t believe you paid that exorcist.” They’d spent ages turning out libraries, but for every transformation that sounded vaguely like Brian’s there were sixty more that mentioned magic belts or psychosis or curses from God for being a sexual deviant. 

Brian sighs. “He was nice enough. He spent an hour on it. He was just doing his job.” 

“That’s not a fucking  _ job _ . He’s just scamming desperate people out of cash.” 

The dishes are done, but Brian’s not ready for bed—he’s pacing. His hands are moving in that way, where he can’t figure out what to do with them, where they can’t quite stop because the trembling feels too fucking weird. 

“Do you want another drink? I can make something.” 

Pat should definitely say no. Especially tonight.

“Sure.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Brian gets trashed, which is interesting. He doesn’t do that, usually. Pat wonders if it became a habit of his, too, while they were apart. 

Annoyingly, he’s cute even when he’s hammered: chatty and giggly. This is quite unlike Pat, who gets sullen and red-faced and angry and generally even more of an asshole than usual. He’s not there yet, tonight, but he could let it go that way, if he wanted. He feels the pull. 

But no. He needs to keep his shit in line, because at some point Brian needs to go to sleep, and if he trusts Pat enough to get drunk right now then Pat’s sure as hell going to make sure he takes care of it.

“You’re crazy,” Brian pouts, and Pat almost startles before he remembers what they were talking about. “Fire sounds way better.” 

Ah right. That’s the point of the night where they’re at. Fighting sleep, with Brian’s head on his lap, indulging his morbid fantasies. “Burns  _ suck _ . Freezing to death just sounds annoying. Plus, think how much more likely you are to get rescued. You’ve got hours more time.” 

“That sounds like the worst,” Brian’s eyes are closed, which Pat is responsible for fixing. He twines his hand in Brian’s hair, pulls it with a sharp tug. The kid’s eyes snap open. “At least fire’s pretty.” 

“Figures you would care about aesthetics,” Pat says, because he can’t say  _ you’re pretty. _

“What’s that supposed to mean,” he scowls, and shifts his head under Pat’s fingers. It’s dangerous, this position. But Pat’s committed. He’s not going to toss the kid off his lap.  

“Nothing,” he says, because he can’t be clever. Not right now. 

“Are you calling me shallow?” 

“No,” Pat says quickly, because Brian’s offended squirming is either going to give Pat an erection or a fucking flashback, if not both, and he literally has no idea which is worse. “You’re not shallow. That’s not what I meant. I just mean that you like beautiful things.” 

“That’s true,” Brian says, settling back down, thank god. “Like you.” 

_ “Huh?”  _

“Nevermind.” Brian blushes. 

“No, no, kid, if you’re gonna give me a compliment don’t fuckin take it back. You gotta give my ego  _ something,  _ here. Your little friend was annoyed with me, and Simone thinks I got in a bar fight, and Tara’s been telling me I look I belong on the underside of her shoe for like six months.” 

“Tara’s wrong” Brian says, easily. “You’re gorgeous, Pat Gill. Even with the scruff” 

It’s hard, to ignore the rush this gives him, this compliment. But it doesn’t mean anything. He’d asked for it, after all. “Can I get a pull-quote of that,” Pat says, and tries to make sure his voice isn’t acrid. “For my tinder bio. Facial structure is Brian-David-Gilbert approved.”

“Stop it,” Brian says fussily, sitting up and he’s clearly fucking exhausted and also very drunk. “Why ask for a compliment if you can’t accept it?” 

This is a question that Pat’s sure is rhetorical, so he doesn’t say anything. Brian doesn’t let it go, though. That’s not his style. Instead, he’s pressing forward, face so near Pat’s that the dilation of his pupils, the flit of dark motion under his skin is clear. It makes Pat’s stomach turn over in a few different ways.

“I nearly killed you, Patrick. So just fucking let me. Say this. Then you can say pissy shit later.” 

“Promising start,” Pat murmurs. 

“ _ Stop it _ ,” Brian shoves at him, and the hand is probably supposed to be a gentle and friendly push at his collarbone, but Brian’s body can be weird, when he’s like this, when he’s about to… when he’s dealing with this. So the jab comes hard at his voicebox and it wrests a sound out of Pat that is pathetically like a whimper. 

He flinches back involuntarily, choking, tears in his eyes at the pain and also at his stupid lack of self-control.  _ Why  _ does he have to be so fucking  _ weak _ . Jerking away is the  _ worst  _ thing to do. Brian is going to freak— 

he does, of course.

Brian’s up on his feet in a second and backing away staring at his hands like he’s in a stage production of  _ Macbeth _ . “I—I—”

“You’re—chill,” Pat coughs. “Fine. Sorry. I was being a dick.” 

But it’s too late— the kid’s fucking tearing at his hair again— he’s got such  _ great  _ hair, why he insists on using it as an outlet for his self-hatred, Pat can’t begin to guess.

“You weren’t—oh my god—I’m so fucking  _ sorry,  _ Pat— I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Pat says easily, and he’s getting back in the groove. This is familiar. Brian being fucking horrified, Pat standing up, grabbing his wrists, getting close. Looking down at him, trying to squeeze him into stopping those thoughts. “I know, kid. I shouldn’t poke the bear tonight. Not your fault. I forgot how he gets. Nothing to do with you.” 

Brian’s sobbing into his shoulder again, whispering apologies and drunken self-hatred. It’s familiar, and it’s not  _ good _ , but Pat knows what to do. It’s easy to run an arm up and down the kid’s back, to press his chin into that shock of tawny hair, to tell him it’s all right, that he’s all right, that he’s gonna get through this and out to the other side and everything will feel better soon. 

Pat’s glad, when Brian lets himself be guided back to bed. Even in this room, it’s surprisingly not too hard, to know what to do. Hold him, get him undressed, soothe his crying, lock him up and let him curl into Pat’s chest like a grief-stricken child. His breathing evens out surprisingly fast, and Pat untangles his limbs with infinite slowness. It’s stupid, to put a blanket on him, tonight, but he does it anyway. Maybe it’ll only be for ten minutes, but at least he won’t be cold. 

Then Pat quietly lets himself out to sleep on the sofa. He wonders if tonight will be bad. Some part of him — some deep and intuitive part that he rarely acknowledges he has— knows it will be.  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The second night  _ is  _ bad. 

The screaming is so loud _.  _ Pat understands why Jonah picked up something to bludgeon with before he went in to Brian’s room, the first time. It’s clearly Brian’s voice but it’s also  _ not _ , so strained and pushed to the brink, animalistic shrieks of pain and fear and anguish. 

This is what medieval torture chambers sounded like, Pat’s fucked-up brain supplies, when people were being stretched on the wheel. This is something that washes you with adrenaline, because your body knows that it could be next and it better fucking  _ run _ . This is something that is going to make the neighbors call the cops and say  _ hey the skinny weird guy who lives next door is definitely an axe murderer but apparently he’s not very good at it.  _

Brian point-blank refuses to go get stitches. He says he’ll do it after the fourth day, but Pat thinks he probably will never go at all. The kid’s consumed by this terror that he’s going to get committed. And he’s probably not wrong. It’s easy to imagine Brian getting 5150’d into some psych ward. Delusional. Violent. A danger to himself. They wouldn’t even be  _ wrong.  _

_ They’ll sedate me _ , Brian says, in a matter-of-fact way that makes Pat uncomfortable.  _ I don’t even know if haloperidol will work on me, Pat, but if it does what if it’s like sleeping? What if they knock me out and don’t use any restraints? A straightjacket isn’t going to hold me. _

The kid’s a real pessimist but he knows the risk. The lack of sleep must be starting to get to Pat, because he can’t muster any empathy for some theoretical orderly getting his face ripped off because he didn’t listen to Brian’s hysterics and just jabbed a needle in his thigh to shut him up. 

He closes his eyes. He’s fuckin’ tired. His brain is going over old ground. They’ve gone around and around a hundred times on this. Brian won’t tell anyone, because no one can believe this shit without seeing it, and Brian is rightly terrified that good-intentioned curiosity could put someone right in the path of his claws. Again.  _ And what’s the point of getting help _ , he says,  _ if I kill whoever’s trying to give it to me. _

Pat won’t tell because he’s terrified that anyone who finds out will take Brian away.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Pat wavers, when the screaming starts on the third night. To go in or not. It’s so much worse, when he’s not there. Brian nearly ripped his chest open, last night. Tonight there might be no choice, about the ER. He doesn’t know how to explain this to 911. 

He lies on the sofa and opens the Coleridge Brian gave him with trembling fingers. Makes a mental note to tell Brian that this guy is on the  _ List of Things Brian’s Not Allowed To Read Right Now _ , along with Hume and Plath and Donne and every other thing he’s wrenched out of the kid’s hands this year. Brian will protest, just like he protests every time. That literature is not an instruction manual. That Donne only has that  _ one  _ death poem, and the rest are all sexy. That we need to read through others’ emotions to understand their pain yadda yadda yadda. 

Pat doesn’t relent, when Brian goes off like that—just doubles down.

_ You understand the pain just fine, Brian. If that’s the point then I should be the one fuckin’ reading it. _

Pat does read it, but sometimes it’s a lot. He doesn’t want to think about which words speak to Brian’s aching heart. Where Brian casts himself, in these stories. What denouement Brian thinks would be poetic, for his own little tale. 

A lot of times, Pat stops reading halfway through. He doesn’t really want to know what happens next. 

He closes the book, when the screams grow to fever pitch. It’s too much, it’s too much. He can’t possibly stay out here, no matter what he feels. Not if it’s going to make Brian do  _ that.  _

Pat finds his hand on his bedroom door, hesitating. What if his presence makes things worse? Makes the creature more furious, more hurt? What if Brian just continues to hurt himself, whether Pat’s there or not? What if Pat’s too afraid to do this, anymore? 

“Fuck it,” he snarls at the cowardly part of himself, and pushes his door open. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The creature that is Brian startles at the sudden movement. He’s on the floor—he might have just thrown himself there, in fact—and is looking up at Pat with eyes that induce a shudder. 

“Fucking get it _together_ ,” Pat barks at himself, staunchly, trying to shake loose whatever thoughts are in his brain. He needs to focus. Calm the thing down. Somehow. Without touching him. Brian is already straining to get at him, snapping and biting, reaching out with bloodied claws. Pat presses his back against the door and sighs over his racing heartbeat. He’s already so fucking hurt. Brian, that is. There’s blood on the crown of his head from… somewhere… 

“Why do you get so mad,” Pat says despondently, as he slides down into a seated position against the door. “Why do you hurt yourself, when I’m not here.” 

Normally, talking is good, so he tries. It’s hard to watch something fight so hard to make progress toward you, no matter what its motivation. The claws drag in the wood, make a sound that hurts to hear. It’s fine, though. Pat wasn’t gonna get his security deposit back, anyway. 

“Why do you have to look like Brian,” he murmurs at it, seeing if a quieter tone might do the trick. “It makes it worse.”

The same blank, uncomprehending, blindly  _ hungry  _ look. 

It surprises Pat, when he dips into himself, and finds that he’d rather be in here. It’s bad. But it’s worse to be outside. Brian will probably be mad that Pat’s not more scared. But he just feels tired, and like he’s fucked up, but probably not irreparably. 

“Calm down so I can get you some food, okay? Your better half made piccata this week. Because he knows how to  _ romance  _ a girl. Unlike some people.” 

He waits until Brian is crouching, at the full extent of his chain, a little calmer, before he goes out and in.

He doesn’t think he can get close enough to treat the cuts, not without a repeat of yesterday, but he can get the stuff ready for later. He gets food. His book. If he’s not allowed to sleep outside, maybe at least he can read. 

The food isn’t really to Brian’s taste, but he eats it anyway, glaring. 

“Don’t like capers?” Pat smiles to himself as he settles with a dog-eared page. He could try getting on the bed,  _ his  _ bed, but it’s up high so it’s easier and feels more right to wedge his back up against the door again and crack the book. He can read aloud, maybe. 

“ ‘ _ Tis the middle of the night by the castle clock… _ ”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


On the fourth day, they’re moving on to Poe, because the sing-song meter is easier for Pat to read. Pat’s only a few stanzas in, when something moves in the room. He lowers the book. 

“What is it, kiddo? You don’t know what a  _ palfrey  _ is either? I can google it for us I guess.”

Brian’s body is fairly still—he’s still  _ agitated _ , pulling at his ankle, rocking a bit, claws are doing claw things on the floor and elsewhere, but he’s mostly fine. Nothing seems amiss.  Pat’s trying to find his place on the page when the movement happens again. 

And this time, he sees where it’s coming from. 

“Oh,  _ Christ _ ,” Pat shouts, and he’s standing and sudden and loud, in precisely the way that Brian hates. He’s not upright for long, though, because he’s flinging his body onto the ground hard, shimmying his awkward useless stupid shoulders under the bed, swiping his arm into the dark and begging to a creature that can’t understand him. 

“Charles come  _ here _ .” His voice is a bit hysterical. “You can’t be in here, baby. Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck. _ ”

It’s too dark under here to see the outline of his little furry body, but Pat can see the twin points of light,  in the far corner, watching him. He’s so far. God.  _ God _ . 

Brian has been upset by all the movement, and by the disappearance of Pat’s head, and is growling. The two cat eyes blink out of existence, most likely because Charlie has turned his head to look at the sound. 

“Charles, just—stay there. Please.” His bed doesn’t have anything under it, but it’s near impossible for a man of his stature to fit in the empty space between frame and floor. 

Near impossible, but not  _ quite  _ impossible. Pat drags himself forward with his elbows, cursing as his hair gets caught above in the wire frame and a chunk definitely rips out. It’s dusty, under here, because Pat is a fucking slob and never cleans it, and his mother was right all along, if you don’t clean your room you’ll regret it, because if he sneezes Charlie will  _ definitely  _ run. And that’s the ball game, kids. 

He feels a peculiar sticky wetness on his hand, the hand he’s reaching out. His first stupid instinct is that it’s tears, because that kind of wetness sneaks up on him unannounced sometimes lately, although of course that sneaks up on your  _ face  _ Patrick, not your fucking hands— 

of course it’s blood, because he’s ripping up his bandage with this frantic crawl — 

god, could things get any worse. 

The sound of Brian starting to get really pissed, only a few feet away, reminds Pat that things  _ can  _ and probably  _ will  _ get worse, if he doesn’t fucking  _ get this right.  _

He gets a hand on his cat—just the fingertips, really, but Charlie is a  _ very good boy  _ and doesn’t run—and contemplates how he’s going to do this. He can’t get a proper arm around him, not fast and certain enough. The collar will break away if he yanks it. Scruffing him is the best option, but Pat needs to get closer. He’s gonna have to move and scruff and pull all in one fast motion and it’d better be perfect because he’s a good liar but he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to sell  _ he got out the front door, Bri,  _ without sobbing like a heartbroken child. 

Pat takes a deep breath, and tries to visualize exactly what his body needs to do. Perfectly. First try. 

Despite the ruckus, Charles seems pretty calm. He’s licking Pat’s fingers. 

“I love you,” Pat whispers, and pets under his chin. “Please be chill. Please don’t fight. Please just go limp and let me grab you. I will never stop Brian from giving you treats ever again. I swear.” 

Charlie is purring, because of the chin scritches, and  _ there’s  _ that face wetness that Pat knows so well. Okay, he needs to do this. If he doesn’t do it soon, then there’s more chance that—

_ bang! _

_ “No! _ ”

He feels the fur shift at the sudden slam. Hears the growl. Tastes salt. Smells blood. Sees nothing. It’s too fucking  _ late _ — 

_ “fuck _ —” 

It’s a moment before the pain even registers, and two before the screeching, but his hand is smarter than his fucking brain and he has it, he  _ has  _ it, his fingers gripped tight around Charlie’s tail. 

“Oh thank God,” he gasps, and pulls, and shimmies, and Charlie is fighting like a mad thing and wailing in pain and clawing for purchase, but the floor is slippery and Pat is a lot bigger and cat’s tails aren’t designed to be pulled but at least they don’t detach like a lizard’s. 

The sounds are really too much — the two screaming miserable creatures Pat is trying and failing to take care of — and Pat can’t hear anything but the pain-filled wailing from every direction — but his body, god bless, even when it’s blind and deaf and dumb — can get out the door by touch. 

The sounds change shape in the new room. Pat realizes they’re his own, that the useless yells are his own cries of pain, as Charlie digs his claws in  _ hard  _ and leaps free with a final, indignant hiss. 

“Sorry I hurt you,” Pat sobs to the empty room, and hates the sound of his voice. There’s no point. Charlie can’t understand. He doesn’t know why he gets locked out. How badly Pat nearly fucked up. Why the only person in the world who loves him just hurt him maybe the worst he’s ever been hurt. 

Charlie will be hiding for an entire day, if not longer. But he’ll eventually forgive. He shouldn’t, he  _ shouldn’t _ , but Pat’s the one with the food. 

Behind him, the sound of Brian tearing shit up makes him sick. “I’m sorry,” he says again. 

It’s three AM, and he’s bleeding, and he never, ever, ever does this, but he grabs his keys and a sweatshirt and walks out, leaving Brian to fend for himself. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


There’s nowhere he’s going, but Pat walks. 

It’s so different, walking in New York, than in LA. It’s cold, for one. Even in April. The air bites a little, on his skin. He feels the wind sneak under the edges of his sweatshirt, sting his wet fingers and wet face. He likes a place that gets a little cold. It makes you feel alive. Reminds you that no matter where you are, what you’re doing, how happy or full or sleepy you are, your body is working hard to keep you around. Fighting against the world to keep itself warm. 

This city hums all the time. A muffled, industrial hum permeates everything like static. It’s a distinctly unbeautiful sound, layered screech of trains and distant shout of voices and redshifted honk of horns and strange magnified whistles that might be mechanical or might just be a person shrieking, but so far away they lose their humanity. 

Pat pads thoughtlessly, left and right and left again, until his cheeks are dry. He doesn’t know what to do, and this is not going to help. It’s not clearing his head. He has to go home eventually.

He pulls out his phone. Thumbs through the contacts. Considers his mom. Considers Laura. Considers just calling Brian and letting the sound of his voicemail remind him of the human being he cares about. 

He presses Simone. 

“Pat?,” she says, half-sleeping, half-panicked, like you are when you get a phone call from a friend in the middle of the night, and they normally don’t call you at all. 

“Sorry it’s late.” 

“ ‘tswrong?”

He doesn’t say anything to that, which must be frustrating. He hears her shift, probably sitting up in bed, focusing her attention on the tinny sound of city static that must be nearly inaudible. 

“Patrick? Are you okay?” 

“Not really,” he says, honest enough.

“Where are you?” 

“Walking.” 

“You drunk? High?” 

“No.” Pat says. Some part of him wants to add  _ I am bleeding, though _ , but he resists.

“ ‘Kay. So it’s Brian, then?” 

“Yup.” 

“Is he back with that asshole? Did he hurt himself? Are you broken up again?”

Pat sighs. He’s so tired, so spent. The walking is jostling drops of blood loose, and his head feels a vicious ache coming on. He doesn’t even know how to lie, anymore. “No. It’s not that simple, Simone. I can’t explain. It’s not my problem. I shouldn’t even—”

“For the love of  _ god _ , Patrick, it is  _ clearly  _ your problem,” Simone snarks, tired and cranky. “If you’re up at 4am, it’s your problem too.” 

“It doesn’t have to be.” 

“Fuck that. I mean, do what you want, but I took  _ three hours  _ talking that kid into coming back to you, so you’re gonna definitely fucking owe me dinner if you break up with him now.” 

Pat laughs breathily, at that. As if he could. “I’m grateful, Simone. I am. I just don’t know what to do. He’s a wreck. I’m terrified. I’m not fixing anything. I might be making it worse.” 

“I think you’re good for him,” she says stubbornly. “So there.” 

“You don’t know the half of it,” Pat sighs, and presses a hand up against the concrete of his building.

“So fucking tell me  _ something  _ then, here. Give me half.” 

“He can’t do this on his own,” Pat says, uselessly, staring up toward his apartment, as if he could see the outline of Brian’s body through the blocks, far above. “He’ll kill himself trying.” 

Simone, maybe only Simone, knows he’s not speaking metaphorically. “You don’t have to do it, though, Patrick. Fuckin’ hell, for all you know  _ you  _ can’t do it either.” 

“I probably can’t,” Pat admits. “I’m afraid of that.”

“At 4am the humility comes on,” she says, and he knows what her face looks like. Like half a smirk, and half a sigh. “Dyou want to come over? We can cry at each other.” 

“I shouldn’t leave him.” 

“Dyou want me to come over?” 

“Not tonight.” 

“Tomorrow?” 

“Maybe.” He pauses, thinks. Sighs. “What if he just wants me to leave him alone, Simone.” 

“That’s fucking bullshit. He  _ cried  _ talking about how much he likes you. Like a little baby. He just is afraid of hurting you. Don’t tell him I told you that, by the way. That’s my blackmail to make him go to a therapist. His first appointment’s on Tuesday.” 

Pat gives a surprised  _ hmmph  _ sound, and Simone cackles. 

“What else did he say?” 

“Uh-uh-uh. You’re not the only one with dark machinations, Pat Gill. I’ll keep the boy’s secrets. Well, the fun ones, anyway. Look, answer me this. Are you looking for someone to tell you it’s gonna be okay without you? That it’s not your job to save him? That the world won’t end if you don’t stop doing...whatever the fuck it is that you’re doing? That there’s a limit to how much you should let a relationship hurt you?” 

Any of these things would be things that a rational person would want. Pat closes his eyes, knocks his head against the concrete. Guilty. Guilty, guilty. “No, Simone. I’m not...I’m not looking for that.” 

“Knew it.” She snorts. “Well, then, hate to break it to you, Gill, but you’re probably in love with him. Whether you let yourself help or not, you’ll probably be just as fucked.” 

“That—” Pat groans. “That is supremely unhelpful, Simone.” 

“You’re welcome. Are you going home, now?” 

“Yeah. Sorry for waking you up.” 

“Any time. Just bring me a coffee tomorrow. And try to chill it on the moping before 10am.” 

“Will do.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys you gotta get the man in the hole before you can get him out okay srry for this long sad one


	5. the night sea voyage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My love, in the darkest  
> hour your laughter  
> opens, and if suddenly  
> you see my blood staining  
> the stones of the street,  
> laugh, because your laughter  
> will be for my hands  
> like a fresh sword.
> 
>  
> 
> **\- Pablo Neruda**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end-note for chapter summary, there is a cruel cliffhanger which is worth a warning about

The next month rolls forward with the air of impending disaster.

Pat doesn’t know what he’s feeling, most days. It’s not all bad. In fact, it’s mostly a fog of _bliss_. Which makes it more difficult, to see the dangers crop up. Pat’s used to seeing all the way to the horizon.

Brian’s banged-up bad, but cheery. It’s so fucking _good_ to see him more like his normal self, jumping around with excitement when he figures out a pun and losing his fuckin’ mind when he finds out Ashley doesn’t like Oreos. He’s just so _alive_ — around the office, being his wild cheerful self. Around Pat’s house nearly every day, cooking with him and playing games. Brian drags him to new, young-people bars, to the movies with Allegra and Simone, to his friend’s art exhibition, to this new hipster coffeeshop he’s heard of and wants to try.

Brian doesn’t even order coffee. He orders a green tea latte. Pat can’t bring himself to give the kid shit for it. It’s just so _cute,_ watching him compliment the tattooed barista on her foam art skills and sip it with barely-concealed joy.

Fuck, he’s got it bad.

  
  
  


Pat’s personal failings are myriad, but he always thought he was pretty decent at avoidance. But suddenly, it’s hard to push the thoughts away. They just crop up, so often, in so many places.

Every time he comes home, and Charles brushes against his leg.

Every time Simone looks at him like he’s done something _good_ , for once.

Every time he forces Brian to strip off his shirt, and the kid rolls his eyes but does it, so Pat can examine the healing marks and text his one old friend who used to be a premed about whether they’re okay.

Every time he looks at the next set of X’s on his calendar and tries and fails to figure out what to do.

Pat’s digging his own grave. He’d like to say it’s out of his control, but that’d be a fucking lie. He knows damn well exactly what he’s doing.

He doesn’t _have_ to agree to dinner with Laura and Jonah, when the kid whispers anxiously _they think we’re a couple_ and Pat says _that’s fine, I can handle that_ and Brian says _are you sure_ and instead of saying what he should say, Pat just says _just stick to the story, kid. thirteen inches, remember_ and revels in Brian’s laugh.

He doesn’t _have_ to keep checking the scratches every day, but Brian’s already gotten into the habit of stripping off his shirt easily at the end of the night, flipping his hair saucily and saying something like _I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. De-Gill_ , and Pat is far too weak to give up the chance to run his fingers over the soft skin and feel the tremble of muscles below.

He doesn’t _have_ to say yes, when Brian turns around and catches his wrist and says _Pat, you’re taking such good care of me, let me do something for you_ . The kid is _good_ at massages, working his smart little thumbs into the deadly knots in Pat’s shoulders with a fierceness that borders on pain, in the best way.

“Oof, kid, that’s amazing,” Pat sighs. “I never fucking get massages. I thought they were kinda bullshit.”

“I know,” chirps Brian. “You think everything is bullshit. But it helps. You should get a proper one, someday. A professional.”

“I don’t like people touching me,” Pat says, absurdly, with Brian’s hand holding his shoulder firmly while he pushes into some place or another, and then he’s afraid he’ll hurt the kid’s feelings, so he adds, “Except you, you’re tolerable.”

“Aww, love you too.” Brian quips, and either he doesn’t notice Pat wince, or he graciously ignores it. Pat feels out of his depth.

He’s not stupid. He knows this is flirting. He just doesn’t know what it _means_.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Good to see you again, Patrick.”

“You too.” This is a lie. The first of several. Pat fucking _hates_ seeing Karen, already, although she’s perfectly nice, and they’re only on the second time here, so he should really give her a chance.

“How’ve you been doing this week?”

“Better.” A lie. “I’ve been getting out a lot more.” The truth.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she smiles. “What’ve you been doing?”

“A lot of drinking, to be honest.” This is true, for both of them. “Social, though. I've been seeing more friends. Haven’t done that for months.”

“What’s changed lately? And by more, you mean more than just your sister Laura and your roommate..." 

"Jonah, yeah."

It’s tough, talking with Karen. Swapping the pronouns and the perspective and talking around everything important makes for intricate lies. Pat doesn’t want to get caught up in whatever processing his own emotions need—surely they need it, he’s a _disaster_ —but that’ll take far too long, and it’s not the primary concern. He’s only got fifty minutes to figure out what a professional would say to Brian so that he can figure out how to say _that_.

You can only lie _so_ well to someone though, and good lies always have some truth in them anyway, so things slip out. Karen’ll catch a truth, every so often, and when she does he feels like he’s been caught out, hoist with his own petard.

“You mentioned that you feel like a monster, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Pat says, before his brain realizes that she’s not actually talking about him. "Yeah, I do." 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


This new wild and bright and often-tipsy Brian is less predictable than the old one who cried a lot and never though he deserved a moment of happiness, and only sometimes does he resemble the _old_ old one, the one who spun a thousand plates with ease and poise and seemed destined to carve out a life of beautiful, endless, goofy, kind, emotional creations.

Pat feels just as scared of this new Brian, though. He doesn’t read his sad poetry, and he doesn’t talk about death, and he doesn’t lie motionless on Pat’s couch pondering existential philosophy. But he also doesn’t keep going to the therapist, and he doesn’t research, and he doesn’t seem ever to stay still. The volatility scares Pat, for myriad reasons, some of them simple and selfish. All thus-far observed Brians come equipped with the potential to rip out Pat’s heart and feed it to him, if they so choose.

Brian continues to flirt, with Pat but also with everyone, with people and with alcohol and with new hobbies, thrusting himself back into living with a wild enthusiasm that makes Pat’s heart ache with joy, and hope, and terrible fear of disaster. Maybe Pat can make it to the end of the month, at least. If he doesn’t fuck it up before Monday, he’ll consider that a win.

  
  
  
  
  
  


It turns out Laura’s a good cook, and Jonah’s funny, and there’s that awkward meeting-the-boyfriend energy only for a bit. It isn’t even painful, strangely, wrapping an arm around the kid’s shoulder affectionately and pulling him close on the couch. They already do it so much. There’s nothing performative about it, their easy casualness with touching.

Brian does most of the talking, particularly once he’s had a few. He talks about their dates with real affection, and what he’s lent Pat to read and how it’s going, and even tells them they’ve been planning on going on a trip. Which is true, they have, though Brian’s long out of vacation days. It’s Pat’s idea, actually, a fucking stupid last-ditch lead on cracking this thing, but it’s better than the exorcist, at least.

“I know you’ve been going through some shit, Brian,” Laura says, when the night is winding down, and everyone’s had too many drinks and Pat’s wondering if maybe sleeping here would be all right after all.  “Just glad to see you a little happier. It’s obvious Pat cares about you a shitton.”

Oh, see. Things like that. That’s the reason he shouldn’t have come. Because it’s true of course, and he’d like Brian to know it, even, but the word _obvious_ is like a pin piercing through a still-struggling butterfly.

Ignorant of useless anguish, a smile spreads brilliantly across Brian’s flushed cheeks, and he leans over to whisper conspiratorially. “I dunno. He’s so shy. Sometimes I wonder. If he even _like_ likes me.”

This brand of teasing leaves a sour taste in Pat’s mouth, and he pulls away a little. Laura doesn’t seem to like it either, and she looks very stern. “Shut it, Bri. That’s mean. I don’t think—Pat’s not even _out_ yet, are you?” she turns a look to him, eyebrow raised.

“Um.” Pat doesn’t know how to answer this. “No. Only to Simone. Because she guessed.” He sighs.

“Brian’s been out since he was like ten so he’s probably not very sympathetic,” Laura scolds, in that sistery way that’s like how Brian does, when Pat reads a rhyme scheme wrong on purpose. “It takes a while. Just as long as you’re not embarrassed of him or something.”

The kid’s got a real hangdog look, now, that’s bordering on almost teary, and it makes Pat pet him affectionately.

“Are you fucking nuts, Laura. What would there be to be embarrassed of.” He scowls. “Unless you’re sassing me about the cradle-robbing, because if so, then fuck off, he asked me out first.”

This makes Laura snort, and Brian too, and it’s the same snort, and Pat is relieved when the conversation moves on.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They do stay at Brian’s, that night. It’s a little weird, to sleep in a bed that’s not Pat’s, but they find their places easy enough. Pat’s tired, and a little strained, but Brian has that red-faced energy that tells Pat he’s gonna be talking for a while, even though he’s got nothing to avoid tonight.

“What’s up, kid?”

“Pat, are we dating?”

“...huh?”

“I mean, like. We’re technically...dating, right? And…” he giggles, “sleeping together?”

Pat closes his eyes. “I am too drunk for this line of questioning. As are you.”

“ _Please,_ Pat. Pleaaaaaaaaaaase. I gotta—I gotta clear some shit up, okay?”

He opens his eyes, but stares at the ceiling. It’s stucco also, but it swirls the other way. “All right, Brian. Yes, technically you’re not lying if you tell people we’re sleeping together. Or that we’re dating. And I won’t mind. It’s certainly the best explanation. So go for it.”

“That doesn’t make _sense_ , Pat” Brian says, in that sing-song voice. “If I tell people we’re dating, then you probably can’t date anyone else. I mean. Exclusively.”

“Well, to be frank, kid, I don’t foresee you getting a lot of death threats for taking me off the market.”

“That’s silly. Stop being _silly._ Don’t you _want_ to date someone else?”

“Why’s it all about me, kid? You’re in the same pickle.”

Brian snorts. “Pat. Do you really think I would risk it?”

Pat frowns. “Don’t think like that, Brian. You’re perfectly safe almost all the time. The rest, I can take care of. I’m a good liar. So what if you’re AWOL once a month. People have worse problems.”

“ _Fuck_ I hope not,” Brian says, and it’s so sudden and drunkenly sincere that Pat laughs.

“Fair enough. Maybe they don’t. What I’m saying is, don’t fucking punish yourself like that.”

“So you’re saying...if I have a crush...I should just go for it.”

Pat’s heart twists, hard, because he can hardly dare to hope—and the alternative is deathly painful, in a way that makes him feel filthy and ashamed—but he’s drunk, and he’s in Brian’s bed, and the kid’s been so happy, and flirting, and maybe, just fucking maybe, somewhere in Brian’s subconscious his little fluffy friend has been feeding him dark thoughts—

“Sure, kid. Just go for it.”

Brian kisses the way that he talks, eager and brilliant and beautiful. He tastes like gin and poetry.

Dear god, Monday is going to suck.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Brian disappears for two days, after that.

No one knows where he goes. Not Laura. Not Jonah. Not Simone. Not his therapist. Not his mom.

Pat assumes the worst, and elects to spent as much of the time as possible high on his kitchen floor. He hopes the kid is alive. He hopes he’s got a plan for Monday. He hopes that however much he regrets the kiss, it’ll convince him that he’s capable of kissing someone, someday, and not regretting it. He keeps his phone nearby, in case. In case of what, he doesn’t know. There’s nothing about this situation that Pat’s equipped to deal with. Nothing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: chapter ends with brian going AWOL for two days and scaring the living shit out of pat =/ srry babies <3 all scenes above that are cheerful-angst with no significant warnings, because brian's in a good mood, but kind of with frantic energy.


	6. apotheosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty  
> At each wild word to feel within  
> A sweet recoil of love and pity.  
> And what, if in a world of sin  
> (O sorrow and shame should this be true!)  
> Such giddiness of heart and brain  
> Comes seldom save from rage and pain,  
> So talks as it 's most used to do. 
> 
>  
> 
> **\- Samuel Taylor Coleridge**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings are much the same as every chapter in that the characters mental states are still Dicey. mild violence.

Sunday night, there’s a knock on his door, and Pat wrenches himself up to answer it.

It’s Brian—

_thank Christ._

He looks a mess—he looks sick, and exhausted, and full of frantic energy and barely-managed strength, and he’s definitely been crying. He’s the most beautiful thing Pat’s ever seen.

The kid is evading Pat’s gaze, rocking on the balls of his feet, as if fighting it out with himself, even now, about whether he should have come here. He’s stammering, something that might be an apology or might be a request, but Pat’s not even listening. He’s just reaching his arm out fast, without conscious thought, _needing_ to get his hand around that slim wrist, to confirm the beating pulse below.

“Shhh, kid,” Pat says, pulling him in. “You don’t owe me any explanations. Just get in here, and we can get you set up.”

Brian lets himself be pulled with shuddering relief, and maybe the frantic sounds are interspersed with _thank yous_ now. The kid can’t eat, but he accepts water, and when Pat sits down across from him and leans over and looks at him and says in a voice that he tries to make very gentle, “We can talk, or not. Just try to chill out. You look like a fucking shipwreck,” it makes Brian laugh, that same little hyena death laugh that’s not great, but it’s not nothing.

They sit in silence for a while, but it’s not good, the way the shaking intensifies. Brian’s thinking about something, and it’s getting worse. Pat can feel it. Pat’s not thinking, honestly, about very much at all, except how glad he is that Brian’s here to think about anything.

Eventually, Brian’s looking at him with an expression approaching disgust, and it hurts enough that Pat breaks in to his thoughts.

“What are you thinking about, kid.”

“How can you let me be here, Patrick. After what I did. How.”

Pat shrugs, although the feeling is strange, like he can feel his own muscles writhing against each other. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s not even sure which thing Brian is talking about.

“I like when you’re here,” Pat says, because it’s the only thing he can think of that’s really true.

“Hah!” Brian’s face is hard. “You like when _I’m_ here. But tonight I’m gone. You just get _him_.”

“I like when he’s here too, honestly,” Pat shrugs. “Even if he fucks me up a bit from time to time.”

Brian stares, wide-eyed. “You’re insane.”

“You’re one to talk. At least _I_ go to my therapist,” Pat snarks, a little hurt, and is comforted when Brian’s expression softens, into something like a laugh and a sob and an apology in one.

There’s nothing else to push on there, not now, not when the kid is so raw, so Pat moves on.

“Anyway. Will you help me with the Coleridge. I can’t figure out what the fuck he’s going on about.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


As the night comes on, Brian reads and fidgets with his ankle, and Pat reads cross-legged on the floor, asking Brian for help when he gets stuck and keeping his face down as much as possible. Looking directly at the kid is hard. A kind of joyful relief that burns.

Brian starts to look drowsy. Eventually his head jerks up and he looks at Pat.

“I’m starting to get sleepy. You should go.”

“I’m fine here, thanks,” Pat says, but it’s gentle.

“It’s not safe. Last time—”

“Last time, my downstairs neighbors called CPS, because they thought I was beating a kid.”

Brian bites his lip. “I—I’m s-sorry. I’m so sorry. I—should never— I shouldn’t have come.”

“Too late now,” Pat’s tone is sardonic, as he gestures to Brian’s ankle. “Got you.”

It’s painful, the look on Brian’s face.

“What if I hurt you again,” Brian whimpers, and Pat can hear how his jaw is tight with the strange tension he gets.

“If I get close, and you hurt me, it’d be my fault.”

“That’s _crazy_. It’s not your fault I’m a monster. You can’t stop me.” His hands are over his face.

“I can and I have.”

Brian moans in sorrow, like his heart would break.

“No, listen to me, Brian. It’s important. I need to tell you something. And you’re gonna listen.”

He gets a nod, and a sniff.

“I don’t regret fucking _anything_. Not that first night. Pushing in on you at the hotel. Yeah, I got hurt, but I didn’t know shit about shit, and you told me to leave, and I’m a stubborn fucking asshole. So I got hurt. That one was just on the universe. Bad luck. Or good luck. Whatever. Since then…”

He hears Brian crying, softly, so he barrels onward. “Brian. Listen. What did you tell me, that first night, and every time since. Can you control yourself, when you’re changed?”

“No,” Brian sobs loudly, then. “God, I’ve _tried_ . I’ve tried, Pat. Sometimes I think I can, but I can’t, I really _can’t._ There’s nothing—I don’t even remember—half the time—”

“Exactly. And I fucking know that. So when I put myself in harm’s way it’s not because I like _you_ , Brian. I do, but that’s fucking irrelevant. Because even if I trust you it’s not going to stop Fluffy pulling out my fucking throat, if he wants, okay? Like you’ve always said.”

“I know,” Brian says, anguished. “I _know_. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because when people die climbing Everest, Brian, it’s not the _mountain’s_ fucking fault.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No, _you_ don’t understand. You think you’re a fucking monster, but you barely even remember what’s happening when you change. I remember. I write it down, I get too close, I get fucked up, I make my decisions, I try again. I could walk away any time, if I wanted to. Even if I had some kind of moral obligation to help you, I could just fucking sleep in the other room. Do you understand? I’m not doing that risky shit to help you.”

“Then why are you doing it?” Brian’s breath is hitching hard, but he’s listening.

“Because I’m trying to help _Fluffy_ ,” Pat sighs. “I like him, god help me. And yeah, he’s a fucking mess, and a real dick sometimes, but I do trust him, Brian. He might hurt me one day, sure, but if he does that’s between me and him, and it has nothing to do with you. And vice versa.”

There’s a long period of quiet crying.

“You’re probably not even gonna change tonight, kid. If there’s a way for me to make it up with your other half, there’s no better time. Gimme a chance? He’s gonna beat the shit out of one of us, either way.”

“ _Why_?” Brian cries, plaintively, but Pat doesn’t think it’s for him. It might be be for the universe.

Brian is so distraught, and crying so hard, that they settle on trying a compromise that he can live with. Pat feels pretty sick, cuffing the kid’s hands behind his back, though. His wrists are so _thin_ , waiflike, even though his face has been filling out all month. Hopefully the cushioning will keep him from ripping red rings into his arm again. Those were nasty, the first time. Kept opening and reopening. Brian loves to gesticulate.

They both lie down to sleep—Brian on his side—and don’t say much for a while, and don’t sleep either.

“Pat?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“D-do you forgive me?”

Pat’s shoulders drop their tension. “Shit, kid, I thought you were gonna give me a hard one. Of course.”  
  
  
  
  
  


 

It doesn’t happen, for most of the night. Brian falls asleep, eventually, on his side. Pat worries he’s gonna roll on his back and pinch something, but it doesn’t seem to happen. Nothing happens, really, except that the moonlight shifts across the room, and Pat can’t sleep, and everything is quiet.

At about 4am, Brian stirs, and Pat doesn’t know which one it is, when he jolts awake. Then he sees the eyes.

“Hey pup. How you been?”

Growling. Of course.

“For the record, I forgive _you_ too.”

This Brian seems less relieved by platitudes, though, and is already up and moving and tearing at his arms with vicious strength. Pat checks the clock. He’s got about an hour. He can afford to let Fluffy work out some of his emotions.

“Sorry about that. Brian insisted. He doesn’t know what I see in you, yknow.”

The wrenching is… really bad. As bad as Pat feared, and getting worse. He’s jerking his arms up, drawing them a little together and then slamming apart with brute force, and though Brian’s body is stronger when he’s like this it can certainly be broken.

“Please don’t break your wrists. You can break the cuffs, that’s fine. I’d appreciate it, even.”

He can’t, though. Brian’s tested them pretty thoroughly, and Fluffy is fucking strong, but he’s not going to wrench through metal, if history can be trusted.

“Calm down. I can take them off, if you’ll just stop moving for a minute. Do you want me to read?”

It doesn’t seem so. He gets more frantic, trapped by the restraint. Pat’s chest is tight, as he watches the panic build. Fluffy slams and slams and slams the wrists, and when he finds he can’t make any progress this way he roars in anger and takes off toward Pat at a full run. The ankle stops him up short and he falls, and _fuck_ it must hurt, the jerk and the impact.

“Stop— _stop_ —kid— please—you’re going to _kill_ yourself, stop—”

Pat doesn’t think he’s ever heard Fluffy _sob_ before, and it’s a sound that’s so like Brian’s that he’s struck dumb. He can’t say anything, while the body is writhing in front of him, _throwing_ himself back and forth, trying to break free and crying and growling in anguish. Pat’s long since pushed out most of the furniture in here, but you can’t get rid of the walls, and he hopes to god that denting drywall doesn’t hurt too much, for the sake of the kid’s poor head.

“ _Stop it_ for chrissakes—”

He gets close, even though this is the worst possible way—Brian on the floor, frantic, angry, violent— Pat standing and panicking a bit himself, truth be told. He just has to _stop_ this. Whatever it takes.

Knocking Pat to the ground doesn’t even seem intentional. Nor does the knee that hits him in the face so hard he sees red and screams—still, Brian’s more than capable of killing him without intending to, so Pat just curls into a ball with his hands over the back of his neck and prays.

It takes Brian a few seconds to stop thrashing, but he does, before Pat has too many bruises.

“Please, kid, please, I’m trying to help you,” he murmurs into his knees, when he feels Brian’s attention shift, his weight moving over Pat and his breath panting in fatigue.

Without hands Brian can’t wrench him around the way he’d clearly like to, but he can easily kick Pat on his back, get him pinned, knees on either side and his full weight on Pat’s hips. Pat raises his hands in surrender, lies still, waits for—  

mouth near Pat’s neck, moment of truth—

—Brian licks and nips desperately, with a frantic sort of affection that Pat thinks might be equivalent to _I missed you_ , in the language of savage beasts

“I’m here, big guy,” Pat sighs in relief and presses his grateful hands into Brian’s hair. “Please stop freaking out? I know we kinda left it up in the air. Sorry for being a tease.”

The licking doesn’t surprise him—it’s good, even. Nor does it surprise him when he loses another shirt to  a good cause. Brian’s tongue and teeth are biting and sucking any skin they can find, worrying holes through the fabric with a sort of frantic urgency that _mostly_ feels good.

“ _Ahhh_ , god, fuck, _please_ don’t do that in the same place twice,” Pat pants. “It’s a hell of a lot. How’m I gonna explain that at work, huh?”

It _does_ surprise him that the creature knows how to kiss— laving Brian’s tongue inside, lapping and chewing at his lips. It’s surprisingly non-bloody, all things considered. It’s certainly not a _delicate_ little peck, and it lasts so long that breathing is something of a challenge, but it’s nice.

Pat’s tries to stroke his head, but the kid is getting worked up again, kind of reckless with his teeth, grinding their hips together suggestively. He wants more, clearly, and he’s getting frustrated.

“You didn’t give me a second to get the fucking key, or I’d be letting you loose right now,” Pat grouses.

The hungry look. The whining sounds. Incomprehension. More struggling.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Patrick says, sternly “Not even after last time, you hear? You can’t scare me off. I’m off my rocker, and I’m a terrible human being, and I can’t fucking understand poetry, and Brian’s too confusing and too young and too good for me, but _you,_ I understand. You’re— _gah,_ Jesus, watch my ribs, asshole, I _like_ breathing — _you_ want to fuck me, and you’re going to rip apart heaven and Earth until it happens, aren’t you?”

The beast falters. The hour’s almost up. It gets weak, almost faint, in creeping light of dawn.

“I get it, Fluffy,” Pat grunts. “Trust me, you picked the right asshole. The kid can’t understand. So stop fucking trying to knock it into his head. I know the language you’re speaking. It’s either him or me.” Pat’s voice is steady. “And I’ve already picked me.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aw hell yeah time for act three babies. the falling action is gonna be _wild_


End file.
